


One Last Good Angel

by krazieLeylines



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Sgrub Session, Alternate Universe - Politics, Ashen Romance | Auspistice, Caliginous Romance | Kismesis, Flushed Romance | Matesprits, Implied or Off-stage Rape/Non-con, Multi, Pale Romance | Moirallegiance, Quadrant Confusion, Slave Trade, Sober Gamzee, Threesome - F/F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-10-27
Updated: 2013-02-03
Packaged: 2017-11-17 03:16:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 29,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/547043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/krazieLeylines/pseuds/krazieLeylines
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Rose is in fierce competition with her rival ashen escort, codename Maryanna, when their next assignment is to act as a caliginous pair for a third party to auspistice, Jade is captured by Slave Traders and somehow ends at the palace of the Heiress during a politic revolution, John is under court order to play permanent conciliator to the troll master that he's unfortunately fallen in love with, and Dave--</p><p>Dave just wants to DJ in peace.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

==>Narrator: Set the stage

You approach a planet far out in the abyss of paradox space. This planet’s name is Alternia, and is inhabited primarily by a race of aliens called trolls, age nine sweeps (equivalent to about 19 years) and younger. Most adult trolls are absent, off conquering distant worlds in the name of their intergalactic empire. They leave two other native Alternian races, drones and lusii, to take care of the young; the lusii act as caretakers for individual minors, and the drones act as the officials of the planet, which use violence and manipulation to carry out their Empress’ law and the Grand Highblood’s divine will.

A mix of various other cultures have also ended up on this totalitarian planet, slaves taken from their own conquered worlds to serve as a source of free labor.

These other cultures include, but are not limited to, the hard-shelled carapaces, the now endangered solitary green-skinned cherubs, the intolerably chatty naknaks, and most recently, humans from the once existent planet Earth. Although these races often live in small reservations run by drones far outside traditional troll civilization, they are required to go into the cities for labor once they come of age.

Though not an ideal life by any means, a certain routine has been kept between trolls and their slaves for years, and any exceptions to the rule are taken care of quickly.

Today, however, everything is about to change. That is because today, the 12th bilunar perigee of the 6th dark season's equinox, is the day where Alternia fulfills its destiny. Today, the routine changes, in just a miniscule way, and the perpetrators fail to be punished for their little misdemeanor. Today, this single act of misstep will prove to be Alternia’s downfall.

Phew! You’d better get started, then, if you don’t want to miss the action. The clock is already ticking down.

Who shall you be now?

==>Be Dave Strider

That is certainly an option, but not an advisable one. Dave Strider is a being of unmatched levels of irony and coolkid cred. You must be a very specific sort of person to even appreciate him, let alone to suggest to try to become him.

And, for clarification, to become him means only to go through part of the narrative through his perspective. No one on this cruel dictatorship of a planet, or even any person in the entirety of the galaxies, places both touched and still yet untouched by troll expansion, would ever be able to successfully become one with Dave Strider.

His all-encompassing sense of humor and deep understanding of the precise rocket science of irony would boggle the mind of even the most near omniscient of men.

Are you sure you want to proceed?

==>Yes

Are you absolutely positive?

==>YES!

Alright, have it your way. You are now viewing the story as if you were Dave Strider. Your personal coolness factor just flickered higher for a second before it remembered that it didn’t give a shit.

==>Dave Strider: Begin narrative

The reverberating notes completely define the room, the rhythm of it so masterfully orchestrated to mimic the relentless flickering on and off of lights. With it, the space is practically alive, and you are in its heart, the entire meaningful universe around you pulsating with the beat. You’ve gotta hand it to the trolls in one regard: at least they know how to party.

Speaking of them, you casually avoid glancing up from your turntables. Even a master such as yourself can’t be expected to lay down sick music without even looking at what goddamn ill magic your hands are casting, or whatever. Wizard shit is more Rose’s area of expertise.

Your avoidance of the crowd that’s almost entirely composed of candy corn horned aliens getting downright dirty on the dance floor is definitely only a result of your dedication to your craft. Although, you have to admit, it is a pretty nice excuse to keep your shaded gaze all private between you and your sweet music.

Trolls, to say the very least and keep the distracting thought processes to a minimum, were very different from what you expected. You had expected them to be more… trollish. Like, slavering maws bloodied with the gore of their recent meal, grotesque facial features, tall, lumbering, disproportionate bodies, scaly mold-colored flesh that hung in clumps reminiscent of the arm fat of particularly overweight grannies… that sort of thing. Of all the atrocities you could have imagined, the last thing you anticipated was that they would look so… human.

And that was even worse. They were like rotten apples: you never knew how worm-eaten and foul it was until you bit into it. It was a whole new galaxy of disturbing to see something that could walk and move like one of your closest friends, and then use their remarkably humanoid hand to rip the head off of another for a slight so trivial as stepping on their flowers, or some shit, and they fucking _smiled the entire time_.

You’re not stupid. Nor are you weak. You could handle a troll (and you have had to before), even one that had a blood hue on the colder end of the spectrum. But you’re not going to even entertain the idea that you would be able to take on all of the fuckers in this room. If they attacked you right now, you had two very simple options: abscond or die.

At least these trolls are not fully mature yet. Most of them have only just begun the terrifying growth spurt that would turn them into creatures that looked far more akin to your previous idea of what a troll should look like. And by that time, they’ll already be shipped off into space.

The song ends, and you glance only a moment at the weird scrawls that are somehow supposed to pass for future requests (why the hell do they always write in their damn typing quirks, like you give enough of a fuck to riddle out what they’re trying to say?). You shrug, and play another one of your old favorites. It’s not your fault that you can’t made heads or tails of their alien cluckbeast scratch.

It takes a few moments for your body to get used to the new rhythm, and then you’re back on top of your game. You allow only the music to exist. All the bumping and grinding of adolescent aliens desperately trying to fill their concupiscent quadrants before the imperial drones come a-knocking is all background noise that doesn’t deserve any of your attention. You only have a vague understand of what they refer to as “the superior form of romance”. All you know is that it can be as violent as praying mantises mating, and that it’s not a scene that you want to visit.

Not that you’d be allowed to, of course. Humans don’t have the right type of “genetic material” (why the fuck do they even call it that, like they think giving it a scientific-sounding name is going to make it any more of a dignified thing; for fuck’s sake, _they jizz in goddamn buckets_ , you don’t get any less dignified if you brought a couple of hobos on the most awkward double date of the century), and are considered too emotionally insufficient to provide satisfying quadrant-mates. The closest any human’s ever gotten to being romantically entangled with a troll is by playing the role of a temporary whore.

Which ain’t all that much of a bad deal, to be honest. Most trolls choose whores whose main role is conciliatory, for some reason. You know many a human that makes a sweet living off of the loot they receive for giving some lonely troll or two a stern lecture or a well-practiced pap between their horns. God help you if you actually touch one of their horns, though. You remember one girl who mistakenly went too far, and ended up as a horn ornament for a couple of weeks before the troll had the mercy to dispose of her carcass.

That was of course was the worst thing to be thinking about at that particular moment, because that’s when some female troll decided to slide up to your table and stare right at you.

Thankfully, Striders such as yourself are one hundred percent startle-resistant.

“Hey, poser guy,” she says (rude, man, so rude, trolls don’t have any social skills whatsoever, you swear) in an obnoxiously sarcastic tone. She draws out her words like she’s in love with the sound of her own voice and can’t bear to finish a goddamn sentence before she’s beaten those words to death. “Why haven’t you played my request yet? I very much doubt that you haven’t gotten to it yet.”

She’s got an eye patch over one eye, and a ripped button-up shirt that almost covers her family crest or what the hell ever trolls use those symbols for. You vaguely register the fact that she is a blue-blood, and is therefore so high on the caste system that her word that you “blinked at her in a disrespectful manner” would be reason enough to justify your immediate execution. And so you just stand there and stare evenly (without blinking) at Miss Jack Sparrow wannabe.

You wish she could simply disappear, but once again the magically fairies of the universe that don’t exist fail to come to your aid. And so you’re forced to keep some of your focus on her as she leans over and picks up the list of song requests.

“This one,” she points it out to you, underlining it with her goddamn fingertips like you’re an infant and need the extra clarification, “See?”

You give her the “I’m an idiot and therefore am too incompetent to be accountable for any misdemeanors I may commit” look that you’ve perfected over the years. Your brother taught you how, back when he still visited you. Sensing that you’re fighting a losing battle, you cave and glance at her song suggestion.

That ghost8uster song!!!!!!!!

That is way too many shout poles. Like, the last six are the uncool losers who tagged along on their chum’s date not getting the clue that it was an exclusive affair.

“Sorry, man,” you reply, “I don’t know any band by the name of ghost eight uster.” You bite back the added thought of: I can’t be expected to know all of your culture’s trashy musicians and their one hit wonders, okay? There’s so many of the fuckers and they’re mostly shit anyway.

She rolls her one eye so hard you’re kind of worried it’ll be permanently stuck staring into the abyss of her empty skull. “That’s the Ghostbuster’s song, not ghost eight whatever the fuck you said. You know, from that epic movie with human Bill Murray! C’mon, how can you not know it? Isn’t it like one of your inferior culture’s crowning masterpieces?”

Damn troll quirks. “Yeah, it was the seventh wonder of our planet,” you quip, “Shit’s religious to the ancient human clan of B-moviegoers. Every firehouse used to be required by our inferior human law to house at least one shrine dedicated to the extermination of the Marshmallow Menace.”

The irony is apparently lost on her. “Okay, yeah, fine, whateeever,” she says after a second, as if daring you to continue, “Now could you play it?”

“Nope.”

She gives you this expression like you’ve just told a really bad joke and she doesn’t quite understand why it’s supposed to be funny. “Um, whaaat?”

“No, I’m not going to play the Ghostbuster’s theme,” you repeat, “It would completely mess with the flow of my playlist, and also, it sucks. If I started a rousing chant of ‘Who you gonna call?’ I would completely deserve the inevitable lynch mob that this rave would become. Trolls come to this club to rub their nasties together, not to dance to nostalgic memories that they don’t even have.”

“Oh my god,” she says, each word its own sentence. _Ohhh. Myyy. Gaaawd._ “Just play the stupid song. I don’t see what your problem is.”

Obviously she’s one of those trolls that are as dumb as a pile of horseshit. 

“If I play that song, the crowd that is relying on me to give them the soundtrack to their alien orgy is going to rise up and murder me,” you say simply, “Rest in pieces, DJ.”

One hand comes to rest firmly on her hip. Her completely ridiculous mass of hair is flicked back. “Are you always this overdramatic?” She inquires as one of her eyebrows disappears into the crown of tangled black bangs. In conclusion, she is the poster child for hypocrisy.

This would be golden comedic material if your life wasn’t on the line.

“Shit yeah. Been winning the drama diva Emmy every sweep since my birth. Hell, I was born clutching the trophy in my infant fist. Gotta eat breathe and sweat overdramatic if I want to complete my set with good old number eight, babe.” You breathe out slowly. In. Out. Nothing here to be losing your nerves over, Strider.

Trolls don’t like fear, you remember Bro telling you. Give them any reason to believe that you’re scared, and they’ll kill you just for the thrill of it.

“As much as I appreciate the reference to the number eight, I’m not one of those people you can buy with fancy words. Look,” she says, putting a couple of fingers to her forehead, “I’ll make this easy for you. I can make you play that song. But I’m asking you nicely, see?”

Fuck. Stupid mind-controlling blue-bloods.

So this is what your life has come to. You’d thought that your death would be a little more… important. Or intense, at the very least. Not this. Not having to choose between defying a blue-blood and facing a horny mob of alien adolescents pissed at you for turning their mood music off. This isn’t even ironic at this point. It’s just… sad.

At one point, you would have chosen the option that was the bigger “fuck you” to the system, i.e., telling this chick to back the hell off. But now you kind of just want a swifter end, and that would be more easily carried out by succumbing to the masses.

Though you are kind of loathe to die with your ears ringing with a jolly chorus of, “I ain’t afraid of no ghost.” Imagine that being the last sound you ever hear.

Fuck that noise.

“Look, I know you’re used to getting whatever the fuck you want, people probably line up from all around to drop things into your awaiting arms, but in this space, I am the DJ. I am the master puppeteer that uses music to set the mood of this world. And I am not going to subject these poor innocent trolls to the brainrot that is the theme song of Ghostbusters.”

It’s not the best last speech you could have made, but then again, you’re sort of under pressure. Also, playing the martyr card would have made Bro proud. Somewhere, he’s sheading a single manly tear.

She takes a step forward, fingers still held up to keep you mindful of the threat, her eye narrowing in outrage at being refused for probably the first time in her life. “Need I remind you, human, that you are a slave here? Any power you possess is an illusion to keep your kind from turning to mutiny! A mutiny which would, in fact, only cost us some servants. The loss to your side would be far greater.”

Yeah, like that’s something that could slip a guy’s mind.

She opens her lips to say something else, maybe to finally make good of her threat, when a hand grabs her shoulder. A, uh, _human hand._

“Is he going to play the song, Vriska?”

That voice. Oh my fucking god. You know that voice. Your hand slips from your turntables and grabs for the wall behind you.

“ _John_?”

==>Dave Strider: Have a nostalgic flashback as to provide context

Rose always resented them for it. You try to be a little more grateful, though it’s hard to be whenever one of their faces goes blank for a second, and you just know they remember.

You never had parents in the traditional sense, but that doesn’t mean you don’t understand family. When you were young, you had role models. You had discipline. You had support. You had practically everything parents generally provided. Whether your situation was traditional or not didn’t mean anything to you. You think Rose feels the same, underneath that grudge she never let go.

Back then, back before you were old enough to have a long-term memory, they called themselves the Mutini’s. Roxy was their leader, which explains the stupid name. You would have thought that Bro would have had that position, but then again, it’s likely that he was just too cool for the job. They were only two of about a dozen lawless, orphaned kids. They were messed up, you deduced that from the numerous stories Bro’s told you, but then again, what kid wouldn’t be after surviving their parents’ violent murders?

Gangs of rebellious children were very popular at the time, though apparently they spent more time arguing with rival gangs about morality issues than actually doing any productive.

The Mutini’s were different. The Mutini’s accomplished things: invasions, rescue missions, terrorist attacks, the whole nine yards. They were brilliant. They were organized. And even years later you still heard people referring to their group by name, whispered amongst both hopeless optimists and anxious nobles, fearing another revolt like it.

Then the drones started collecting pairs of infant twins. They wanted them for testing, to try to find the gene that produced double the intended amount of offspring. Alternia was experiencing a rapidly increasing decline of population, due to a troll’s ability to only conceive one child, who was an almost complete genetic clone of themselves, once every fifty or more sweeps. The drones could store genetic material to use again should the troll die before their next contribution to the filial pails, but more likely than not trolls would die before even reaching puberty.

You and Rose were one of the various pairs that were taken, most likely forcibly, from your parents. The low testing survival rate painted a very grim reality for your future. 

The Mutini’s risked everything to save the two of you. They succeeded, obviously, as your current existence proves, but at a steep cost. Bro and Roxy were the only two that survived, each of them clutching one of you to their chests as they made their escape.

Bro named you and Rose, as Roxy’s suggestions were abhorrent (Vino and Hooch, who the hell ever can decide for themselves which one she intended for which, as neither Rose or you ever wanted to know). 

They mistakenly decided to recreate the Mutini’s, with you and Rose having spots in the gang already reserved for you by the time you were mature enough to join. Needless to say, that never actually happened.

What did happen was this: Bro and Roxy were caught during something as simple as a quick theft from the trolls’ food storage units. It was something both of them had done countless of times before. Bro swear he hadn’t done anything sloppy, and Roxy was actually even sober that time. Why they failed is a question neither of them will ever have the satisfaction of knowing the answer to.

What you know is how the two of them looked, bloodied and bruised and with faces like they had been crying for hours and had only stopped because they had run out of tears, when the drones had dragged them back to the hideout you inhabited at the time.

You remember how Rose had screamed like a goddamn banshee and launched her tiny self onto one of them when they tried to pick you up. You remember how Bro had actually gotten down on his knees and pleaded like a beggar for the drones to spare her life, to excuse her childish impudence. You remember how many times you had puked (four times) out of sheer terror at the monstrous appearance of the drones.

In the end, they didn’t even need to touch you. Led by the promise that they would snap Roxy’s neck off if you didn’t behave, Rose and you followed the drones like the most pitiful string of ducklings, pausing only the occasional moments so that you could lean over and retch into the bushes, Rose’s reassuringly cool hand resting between your sweaty shoulder blades.

As soon as they got you situated in the cell, Roxy latched onto the both of you until you had to pull away in need of oxygen. Bro punched the wall with already bloodied fists until Roxy slapped him across the face to make him stop. Rose went as still and unreadable as a statue, which you now recognize as her own form of a self-defense mechanism. And as for you? You certainly didn’t cry like a goddamn baby, even if that’s kind of what you were at the time anyway.

It seemed as though the drones didn’t know what to do with you. Even Dirk and Roxy weren’t yet old another to work in the city, and besides, then there would be no one left to look after you and Rose. The drones weren’t maternal in any sense, but at the same time they didn’t want to deal with the backlash they would get for murdering mere children.

The solution came with Mr. Egbert. He was approved by the troll government as an official caretaker for orphaned children. He already had four charges: Jake, Jane, and another set of twins, John and Jade. (Apparently he had a thing for J-names.)

It was here that the four of you found the closest thing to a traditional family you would ever know.

Mr. Egbert insisted on you calling him Dad, although you never did so. You still thought of him as one, though, and everybody knew it. He taught you everything about the planet you never knew, through movies and books that had survived, as well as personal stories from his own childhood. He taught you to be proud even when you had nothing left. And perhaps most importantly of all, he taught you how to live like you didn’t know that the drones would eventually come for you and break your nice little snow globe family apart.

They did, though. First it was Jake, who was the oldest. At the beginning, he was only in the city during the night, and he would return with the sun and immediately collapse into a dreamless sort of sleep. The rest of you used to pester him to get up and play with you before he had to leave again, but Mr. Egbert curtly told you all to leave him alone. So you did.

Jane started following suit, just around the time that Jake started disappearing for days on end. Then, one day, Jake just stopped coming back at all.

You really don’t even want to linger on what happened next. It was the same pattern for everyone: from Jane to Bro, and then from Bro to Roxy, and finally Roxy to the other twins, until it left only Rose and you as the final occupants of Mr. Egbert’s family house.

And then, randomly, Rose disappeared entirely, leaving only a long farewell note informing you that she would not be back to visit for how cruel she believed the action would be, and that she expected to “see you on the other side”. Her cryptic words are forever scorched into your head. You could recite them backwards if someone asked you to. Same old Rose, you guess.

And that left you friendless, _twinless_ , the last terrified little bird to leave the nest.

You had allowed yourself to succumb to a quiet, meaningless routine of music and movies, even the shit that John used to love so much. You ate, you breathed, you slept, but you only did the bare minimum of any of those things, like you would have stopped altogether if it wouldn’t have killed you. Because as much as you loathed living, you were still afraid of death.

In was in this bland nothingness of existence when you finally realized that you couldn’t go on like this. 

It was on this day that you discovered Mr. Egbert, far from the house, soundlessly weeping on the small hill overlooking the land that the government had issued him in return for his caretaking abilities.

“Egbert?” You were cautious about over-stepping your boundaries. It was the first time you saw him cry.

He didn’t startle, didn’t twitch at all. Instead, he looked over to you as if he had known you were there all along. Seeing the wet trail of tears made you feel hallow and numb. You were fucking helpless. Here you were, mooching off of his time, energy, and food supplies for the past five and a half sweeps like a parasitic leech, and you didn’t even have enough strength to comfort him. It made you sick.

“Dave, son, come here,” he said, and put an arm around you as if you were the one who needed comforting. No one was there to see you. You leaned into him.

“Is this about John and Jade?” You knew the two of them were his actual biological children, although their mother was still a mystery to all but him. You opened your mouth to say something else, but then it occurred to you that anything you could say would either hurt him or be a lie.

But he shook his head negative. And then, with the tip of his pipe, he pointed at you.

“Oh, great,” you had snarled, “Now’s the part where you tell me how you’re worried that I’m too weak to make it out in the ‘real world’. Or, wait; is this the talk about you being disappointed because you think I’m never going to move out? Damn, looks like he’s going to be one of those basement dwellers the rest of his life and never amount to anything.”

But he gave you this look that said, _Son, don’t insult me_. “No,” he said in a gentle tone that contrasted with his slighted expression, “Dave, I—”

You cut him off quickly. “Yeah, yeah, I know. You’re sad because you don’t want to see me go, but I’m just going to pretend that’s not what’s going on, because if I don’t, I’m never going to be able to leave, and I’ll forever be stuck on the edge of… of, whatever the hell it is I’m on the edge of. The start of my life? The end of my life? It could be either one, really, the ultimate Russian roulette, but until I jump, I’ll never know. So… just pretend you don’t want me here anymore, kay?”

The words were given a moment’s pause so that they could settle in the thick, heavy Alternian air. “I’ll start packing my bags,” you added.

“Dave,” he said, and took your shoulder with a tender but steady hand.

Forcing back the wetness in your tear ducts, you forced a crocked smile on your face, took his shoulder in your own hand, and told him, “See you on the other side. I’m proud of you, Egbert.”

He didn’t move, didn’t say a word, but somewhere underneath his tears, his eyes glimmered.

==>Dave Strider: Reunite with John Egbert

The music has stopped, due to a stupid tripping over wires. You didn’t notice that at first (you know, because of seeing John for the first time in probably a sweep or so), but now that it’s taken your attention, it’s impossible to ignore.

That, and the fact that everyone in the room is staring right at you.

“ _Dave_!” John’s voice is way louder than it needs to be. It even echoes off the walls of this stupid cramped space. Damn. Everyone in the room heard him.

Including that blue-blood. What had John called her? Vriska? She’s still standing there, too, and watching you with a mix of intrigue and confusion. In a voice so low that you’re surprised that Miss Loves-Her-Voice-A-Lot even knew how to whisper, “So this is Dave?” 

Oh great. Now she apparently knows you, too.

Then John hugs you and you forget about everything else. He’s blurting gibberish in your ear and you can’t understand a single word, but you don’t dare ask him to slow down. It sounds like John really needs to air this shit out now, and you’re not going to rain on his parade.

Apparently Vriska doesn’t have the same principals as you do. “Weeell, this is all very touching, and by touching I mean it literally and not sarcastically like I’m forcing back all this bile building up in my throat, buuut, we’re kind of got an audience here.” She lifts the hand that is not still glued to her hip (like seriously, it’s not like they’re even that impressive, she basically has to twist her waist into a twenty-five degree angle just so you’re aware she even has them) and motions to the crowd behind her.

Shit. Right. Your audience. Your superhuman alien audience. And they are… looking at you like cats that have become bored with the now-dead mouse.

And what happens when a cat finally scares its prey to death?

The trolls are hungry and you are today’s special, á la Strider: fresh out of the kitchen, folks, the chef’s specialty, come one, come all, made plenty for everyone, no need to be—

God. They’re actually fucking advancing on you.

==>Dave Strider: Abscond

Oh yeah right. Like you have a chance in hell. You might as well be trying to get some tail in a fucking nunnery. Or sit through Con Air without feeling the leftover burns of embarrassment from all the times John’s fucking bawled about _how fucking beautiful life is and how this movie reminds him that when things are turning a turn for the worse_ (because of course John gets stuck on planes with various shades of raging psychopaths all the time, you know, he’s an adventurous guy, you should see what he has planned on Spontaneous Sundays) _he can always remember how strong family bonds really are and know he’ll be able to pull through_. Fuck, you might as well try to—

And they’re still coming right at you.

Shit.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, be warned, there will be sexual content between moirails, so it's that's not something you like, you probably shouldn't read.

==>John Egbert: Stop being an oblivious idiot and release Dave

Oh, c’mon! You’ve just been reunited with your best bud! A friend, who, haven’t you forgotten, you’d never thought you’d ever see again. And yet here he is. What type of guy would you be if you ended this sweet reunion prematurely?

==>John, seriously. Dave’s life is in danger here

The room has gone eerily quiet though, and not just because the music stopped playing. There aren’t any conversations going on between the trolls behind you.

You release Dave and turn around. Oh, wow. They’re really glaring at you guys.

“Dave?” You ask.

“Don’t tell you seriously just noticed them now, man,” Dave snorts in disbelief.

The room gets real quiet again, until one of the advancing trolls darkly inquires, “What’d you do with our music, brother?” According to his face paint, he’s one of the subjuggalators of that crazy clown cult… known for their brutality and emotional instability. This night just keeps getting better and better.

You sneak a desperate look to Vriska, who raises an eyebrow at you in kind. 

“You are aware that it is your job to make sure we’ll all having a good time,” the highblood continues, “and of what happens to humans who do an unsatisfactory job?”

Oh. Oh shit.

“Calm down, man,” Dave tries to reason with him, “I just, uh—”

“I’m afraid that I startled the poor guy,” Vriska interrupts, and stands in between the troll and the two of you, “You know how these humans are. So excitable. I just wanted a word with him, and I ended up nearly scaring him out of his trousers!” 

Some of the trolls in the crowd laugh. The clown frowns.

“Now, if you’ll excuse him for a moment,” Vriska continues, stage whispering dramatically, “Speaking of trousers, I think he’s in need for a new pair, if you get my drift.”

This time, the entire crowd roars with laughter, including the clown.

Beside you, Dave bristles. “Excuse—”

Vriska leans back and elbows him in the gut. Before she turns her attention back to the crowd, she shoots you a very quick, very intimate look. You understand.

“She’s just trying to help you, dude,” you murmur to Dave, and then, in a louder voice, “If you’ll pardon us, we need to take a trip to the little boy’s room!” You grab a very resistant Dave and pull him through the crowd of trolls to the other side of the room. “Sorry, coming though, excuse me,” you say as cheerily as you can muster, avoiding any direct eye contact with anyone.

Dave’s face is so flushed with embarrassment that you can actually feel the heat radiating from his skin, and the fact that the trolls continue to chuckle in your direction isn’t helping matters.

You don’t actually go to the boy’s room, though. That’s only for trolls. Humans have their own, single stall toilets. You push Dave inside first and then follow him in, giving the crowd one last comedic shrug and then locking the door behind you.

“Who does that bitch think she is?” Dave is off like a bomb the moment the door gives you two the privacy you need.

“She did just save your life,” you point out, a little pissed off, “So you could afford to be a little nicer to her. I mean, I know she comes on strong, but she’s actually a really good person.” But you can’t stay mad at Dave for long, even if he insulted Vriska. “At least now we can catch up! Dave, what the hell have you been up to?”

Dave doesn’t seem to be able to move past the imagined slight though. “Everyone back there thinks I’ve pissed my pants; that’s what I’ve been up to!”

“Oh, come on,” you sigh, “That’s just her sense of humor. Though, I may be rubbing off on her, too.”

Dave actually takes off his shades, which are like permanently glued to his face, to glare at you with his weird albino red eyes. “What the hell are you defending her? She’s a troll, if you haven’t fucking noticed, and was perfectly willing to kill me if I didn’t play that stupid Ghostbuster’s song for her.”

That’s ridiculous. You decide to tell him so. “Vriska wouldn’t kill you, man,” you assure him, “And besides, Ghostbuster’s is awesome.”

You see the gears in Dave’s mind turn. He places his shades back on, and relaxes into his usual slouch. “You’re the one who showed her that movie, aren’t you? I should have figured. Your taste in movies hasn’t evolved in the least, John. And to think I had such high hopes for you. For shame."

You laugh, but are sure to give him the customary, “No, it’s awesome, dude, you don’t even understand,” for old time’s sake.

A silence follows, that starts comfortably enough, but soon starts to suffocate you.

“So, for real, why are you defending her, though?” Dave gives you a look like he’s not sure if you’re really John, “Isn’t she like, your master or something? Is this a case of Stockholm’s Syndrome? Should I start trying to contact Rose?”

“What? No! It’s nothing like that,” you nearly choke, “I mean, I guess I’m kind of her slave. Or, I was. Now I’m more of her friend.”

Dave stares at you some more. He doesn’t say anything, but you can still hear his confusion.

“And I guess I’m also her, uh, moirail,” you finally admit, unsure of what he’ll think. It’s not exactly something you’re supposed to be telling people. Moirallegiance is probably the most important of all troll loves, considered sacred in their society, and it’s supposed to be reserved for trolls. Vriska could get in serious trouble if anyone found out what you really meant to her.

“You’re… serious,” Dave says slowly, not mocking like you thought he’d be. This is worse. This is him being so enraged that’s he’s become cold and indifferent.

His suddenly distant attitude scares you. You remember that you haven’t seen him in a couple of years. Was it a good idea to tell him? Can you even trust him anymore? “Please don’t tell anybody,” you plead with him in a soft voice, “It’s kind of our secret. But yeah. Vriska’s seriously my moirail.”

Dave takes a long time answering. Then, “I won’t tell anyone, John, Jesus. What kind of shitty friend even _does_ something like that?”

Whew! “I dunno,” you say sheepishly. It’s ridiculous to assume that just because he’s probably changed through the years you’ve been apart that he’s no longer trustworthy. Still, you don’t want to risk anything when it comes to Vriska. Besides the fact that you would be homeless without her, you really, really don’t want anything to hurt her. Ever.

Dave watches you, like he wants to ask you something, but is unsure whether it would be a good idea. “So,” he prompts, “You’re her palemate. That’s the one with diamonds, right? You two cuddle buddies and all that shit?”

You nod. “Yeah. I guess it’s kind of like… well, okay, this is going to sound really dumb, but another word for moirail that trolls sometimes use is ‘soul mate’. So it’s kind of like those old fairy tales Dad used to read to us about, but… kind of different, also. Like, the trolls really believe in it, for real. Moirails are supposed to kind of be each other’s one true opposite, but a harmonious type of opposition, like, uh, one’s other half. The other half of one’s soul, hence the soul mate thing. And… trolls believe that madness can be cured from being reunited with a moirail. So it’s also kind of like a troll version of… crazy person meds or whatever. Or, as in my case, a human taking the place of crazy person meds.”

Okay, to be truthful, your understanding of moirallegiance leaves a lot to be desired. It’s not that you wouldn’t be able to recognize it when you saw it. You know you’re Vriska’s moirail, and you know that what you feel for her is different from what you’ve ever felt for anyone else. And yet… you’re terrible at describing it. As Dave is now learning.

He stares at you. “Crazy person meds,” he repeats, and then he smiles with half of his mouth. “John, you never stopped being a dork, did you?”

“And you never stopped being an ass,” you retort back.

It seems like a good time to hug him again. He apparently agrees with you. Dave Strider, who you personally know as the least touchy-feeling guy on the planet, wraps his arms around you and holds on tight and steady. Hugs are really nice.

“So you’re the yin to her yang, huh?” Dave finally decides that he’s had enough sentimental bro time and pulls away. “I guess I can see that. She’s definitely nothing like you.”

“Uh. Thanks, I guess?” You think that was a compliment. Vriska is an awesome troll and you wish you were more like her. But, on the other hand, you also like being yourself. Also, Dave seems to hate her, so you’re sure that whether it was a compliment or not, he intended it as one. “But, again, trolls aren’t supposed to be able to have human moirails, so…”

Dave has always been good at reading between the lines. He nods. “Your secret is safe with me, Egderp. Just… keep her under control, will you? She almost cost me my life.”

You salute him cheerily. “Sir, yes, sir.”

He punches you. 

You laugh. “Don’t worry,” you assure him, “Vriska didn’t mean to get you into trouble. She rarely means to get anyone into trouble these days.” His eyebrow rises. Whoops. Before he can ask about what sort of trouble she used to get into, you change the topic. “So you never answered my question. What has the great Strider been doing with his life?”

“Don’t you mean, what have the trolls been doing with my life?” Dave frowns. “I’m the DJ of this place, obviously. I work every night, and get to sleep in the attic during the day. The more money the club rakes in, the more likely it is that my master will feed me.”

“Oh.” You don’t know exactly what you were thinking. Obviously Dave was a slave. You’re all slaves. It’s just Vriska never treats you like a slave, so you tend to forget you’re housing with her against your will. But Dave doesn’t live with Vriska. He doesn’t even get to live in his master’s hive, by the sound of it. He actually lives in this club. “Is… your master nice?”

Dave snorts like he finds the very idea hilarious. “I’ve never even met him. He bought me from my first master, back when I still did hard labor. The bastard didn’t even arrive in order to buy me, just sent his slaves to pick me up. They’re here, too. Did you see that large guy by the door, the carapace?” You nod. Yeah, you remember that guy. You’re pretty sure you’ll never forget that guy. “Yeah, that’s one of them. His number one goon, so to speak. As far as I know, I’m the only human he owns.”

“Oh.” You try to think of anything else appropriate to say. “Oh.”

“Hey,” Dave speaks sternly, swatting you on the arm, “Don’t go feeling sorry for me. At least it’s better than working in the fields. Talk about a hick town. No trolls live out there in the rural parts of Alternia, John. They’re not that stupid. It was a drone-owned plantation, and despite the fact that he could probably lift ten times the amount any of us could, he never even lifted a finger to help, save for the whip he used to encourage us to work faster. The only good he did was keeping the monsters that come out during the day from eating us alive.”

You wince. You’ve heard of them, of course. The undead creatures that only appear during the day. They’ll eat anything. Troll, lusus, drone, human. There’s more than one reason trolls are nocturnal. The scorching hot sun that is known to literally _turn trolls into jerky_ is only reason number uno on a very long list. 

Humans aren’t as sensitive to the Alternian sun, but that doesn’t mean that it can’t kill them either. Typically, your Dad only let you and others play outside in the early day or evening, or on those sweet days in one of the dark seasons when the sun’s rays were more or less harmless, or nonexistent.

You can’t even believe how lucky you ended up in comparison to Dave. Vriska was the only master you’ve ever had, who first hired you to be her “adventure consultant”. After the two of you became more emotionally attached, she started treating you like an equal… or, at the very least, with the same general amount of respect that she treated everyone with.

As you’re stuck in contemplation, someone knocks on the door. “Occupied!” You say.

“Yeah, I already knooow that, durr,” Vriska’s voice floats from the other side, “Everybody in the entire club knows it. So are you guys done catching up yet or what? Because even retarded humans can only take so much time changing their pants.”

Dave frowns, and looks like he’s going to say something back, so you shush him. Man, you think, he _really_ doesn’t like her. You hope he warms up to her later.

“Almost done, Vriska,” you call to your palemate, “Just another minute, okay?”

“Alright, alright, but hurry it up,” she sighs, “I’m getting booored standing out here all by myself. And there’s not even any music to dance to or anything!” You can hear the boredom drip from every word, and start to feel nervous. A bored Vriska is never a well-behaved Vriska. You do know that part of your role as moirail is to make sure she doesn’t get into any trouble (without you, that is; you’re pretty sure that you’re allowed to let her get into trouble as long as you’re both responsible).

“No problem!”

You turn to Dave, who gives you an amused look. “Wow, John, she’s really got you whipped good,” he whistles appreciatively.

You blush. What an absurd comment! “I am not,” you defend yourself.

“Yeah, that didn’t sound anything like denial,” Dave snickers, “Total belief here, dude, I’m drowning in my faith in your boyfriend status. Because anyone who takes one look at you will know, yep, that guy is one dominant motherfucker. The very name John Egbert is the bane of manipulative women everywhere. He’s not wrapped around anyone’s finger.”

“Okay, I get your point; you don’t have to rub it in.” You weren’t kidding earlier when you said that he was an ass.

Dave sighs and leans against the wall. “I guess I should go back out there,” he remarks like it’s the last thing in the world he wants to do, “I don’t suppose anyone will notice if I come out wearing the same exact pair of pants, as long as they get their music back.”

He’s right, actually. Not a single troll even glances at Dave’s outfit when he comes back. Half of them are in the process of some very sloppy make outs, emphasis on the slop. 

You follow Dave up to his turntables, and then stop. Both of you pause, not sure what to say.

“Well, get on with it, motherfucker,” the clown guy from before hollers.

“Keep your…” Dave pauses, stares at the troll, “You call those pants? Whatever. Just keep them on, alright? I’m on it.”

Dave looks to you, though, instead of returning to his job.

It crosses your mind that you could keep him here, indefinitely, just by keeping eye contact. He won’t leave without a final word from you. He’s just that type of friend. 

“I’ll talk to you later,” you promise, releasing him from your gaze.

“Later,” he agrees, and almost instantly you hear him plug the machine’s cord back in. A second after, the music starts to play. It’s the Ghostbuster’s Theme. The trolls around you glare at the choice of song, but you tell yourself that they just don’t understand the beauty of it because they’ve never seen the original movie. In that moment, you pity all of them.

You don’t understand the troll obsession with pity. You honestly think it’s just their way of saying “love” without feeling weak or something. Because obviously an evil race like trolls think of love as a weakness. Though, not all the trolls are evil.

For instance, exhibit A is walking right towards you, a raking grin full of fangs lighting up her face. By God, she is gorgeous.

“Heeey, you finally got him to play our song,” Vriska says, “This deserves a dance, don’t you think?” 

Oh, it certainly deserves a dance, and you both know it. Laughing, you pull her into your arms and shimmy her around. Neither of you really knows how to dance, but that’s not really a problem, because you two have more style than any other human or troll on this dance floor. 

Well, actually, you’re the only human on the dance floor. But that’s okay. You’re used to this sort of thing by now. Trolls don’t generally bring their slaves out to clubs with them.

It was just another way that your Vriska was different. You’re lucky to have her.

Speaking of. “Are we still hanging out in the morning?” You ask her. Although most of the time the two of you spend the days tucked away safely in her hive, other times she gets called away for work. You don’t know the specifics of what she does. It involves lots of violence, though, judging from the various times she comes home battered and bruised, and you’re not entirely sure it’s lawful. But then again, you’re not entirely fond of the laws anyhow.

“Aww, I wish we still were,” Vriska replies, “But I just got a text from Pupa. We have a new lead, and we want to follow it before it gets cold.” She’s always really vague when she tells you about her job. Pupa, however, you know. Tavros Nitram is not your favorite troll, but he’s one of Vriska’s friends, so you hold your tongue and nod.

“Hopefully you don’t get too bored without me,” Vriska continues as she latches onto your neck and leans close, “Wait up for me, won’t you?”

You nod. You’re used to this by now. She goes and has her fun with Tavros, but at the end of the day she falls asleep in your arms. “Just don’t be out too late,” you remind her, like you always do, because you’re terrified she’ll get caught in the deadly sunlight.

“Oh, Jooohn,” she whines, “You know me. I can handle myself. Can’t I?”

“Yes,” you reply and laugh, “I know that you can handle yourself.”

Vriska nods. “Good. Because if you didn’t know that by now, I’d be very worried about you.” She leans in and gives you a quick kiss. “You’re the best moirail, John.”

You wave at Dave when you finally leave, and he gives you a nod.

\---

When she finally comes home, predictably enough, she’s a real mess. More so than you’re used, to, actually, and you’re used to a lot of gruesome stuff.

“Oh fuck,” you cry, and run over to meet her.

She’s covered in cerulean, bronze, and lime colored liquid, all mixing together in a gruesome slurry that had your stomach twisting into queasy knots. She’s limping, due to a large gash in her right calf, clotted closed with dried blood. Her good eye is so swollen you don’t think she can even see, and you’re afraid she’ll never be able to open it again.

“What happened?” You ask desperately.

Predictably, Vriska holds up a shaky hand and closes her eyes like she’s about to get sick. “Later,” she promises you.

She nearly falls into your arms when you offer your embrace to her, seeming pleased that there is someone there to hold up her weight for a while. “Let’s get you cleaned up,” you say, and move her so that you’re holding up half of her weight.

Getting her to the bathroom (trolls call it an ablution trap) gets easier every time, though you’re not exactly happy of this fact.

You sit her down on the toilet (that one they call the load gaper) and start to pull her stained shirt over her horns. It takes a bit of effort, but you manage it fine. You’ve had lots of practice. Her bra comes next, as you unlatch the back and free her small breasts.

Usually, the sight of those blue tinted nipples would send your blood rushing downwards, but you’re in doctor mode right now.

Her pants are a little trickier, because one leg is kind of stuck to the mess that is her calf. You don’t want to risk opening the wound again, so you decide to just tear them off. Vriska sees what you’re doing and helps you, using her claws to rip open a seam for you to pull apart. Working together, the two of you are able to take the pants off. They’re no longer wearable now, but neither of you mourns the loss. She always wears her least favorite clothing when she’s working for this reason.

Last are her panties and you have to urge her to lift her hips so you can pull the fabric out from underneath her. You slip them down her legs, making sure not to touch any of her wounds along the way. Vriska has long since grown used to being completely nude before you, and merely slumps back against the back of the toilet when you’re done, not even moving her legs to cover herself.

Trolls are different in the pants department than humans are. Despite the fact that you know this, it never really prepares you for an eyeful of naked Vriska. She’s got herself a bulge, the female version of it anyway, which is close enough to looking like a human dick for you to feel both relieved and uncomfortable. It’s flaccid now, but when erect it’s flushed with her blood color and wet, sort of like what you’d imagined a clitoris to look like, except larger and stiffer. Underneath and attached to her bulge are the thick lips that lead to her nook, which thankfully is, as far as you know, identical to what human girls possess, minus the odd coloring.

The flaccid bulge resting between her legs always weirds you out, but you graciously ignore your urge to grimace. It’s not what a gentleman would do, and besides, you’re pretty sure it would hurt her feelings. She’s rather proud of her bulge size, in comparison to her tiny breasts and otherwise petite body. 

You give her a smile and tell her how beautiful she is before grabbing the first aid kit from the shelf behind the mirror. You always keep the box stocked and organized.

Water comes first. You coax Vriska to lean out her thigh over the edge of the tub so that you can turn the faucet on and let the water wash away some of the blood. You take a small hand towel and gently clean the wound, taking as much care as possible. She is used to the pain, has a tolerance to it that scares the shit out of you some days, so she merely nods at you impatiently.

You turn off the water and use another towel to get her nice and dry. The bandages will just be uncomfortable for her otherwise.

The antiseptic is next. You take off the cap and generously pour it over her wound. Vriska makes a slight hiss as it bubbles and does its magic on her, but the hand she places on your shoulder is gentle and reassuring, as if you’re the one in pain and she means to comfort you.

Again, you turn on the water, and towel her leg off. 

The last part takes careful fingers. You have to bandage her tightly enough to put proper pressure on her wound, but not too tight to cut off circulation. It’s sad, but you are an expert at this. You probably could do it perfectly the first time without thinking. You don’t test that theory, though.

Once her leg is taken care of, you move to her eye. It’s her only other major wound, thankfully. 

“Wait here,” you advise her, and quickly run to grab an ice pack from the freezer. You return to her side as swiftly as you are able, and wrap a towel around it as an added layer of protection between the ice and her already cool skin.

Vriska does make verbal protests to this part, mainly because she hates the cold, but you insist and tell her that if she was careful you wouldn’t have to do this. The guilt shuts her up nicely.

“Is it time for ablutions yet?” Vriska asks after a couple of minutes, glaring you out of the corner of the eye that the ice pack is not covering. 

“Not yet,” you tell her. Patience is not one of Vriska’s virtues.

She sighs and slumps, her spine crumpling in the most visual definition of resignation you’ve ever witnessed. You fail to fall for her guilt bait, however. You are the master at avoiding her emotional traps by now. 

“So…” You decide that as long as you have her here, you might as well get your obligatory moirail meddling on. “Did you two finish your mission?”

“Hmm?” Vriska looks at you as if she has no idea who you are. It kind of scares you. Then, finally, “Oh. No, Pupa and I ditched that one. Wasn’t worth the pay, you know? I mean, look at me. Tavros looks even worse. Aaanyway, we found one that was so much better. You have no idea, John. If Pupa and I pull this off, we’ll be set for perigees.” She gives the most intense look a troll can muster with only half an eye. “That means no more missions for perigees. Just you and me, John, every day, like we used to. Do you remember?”

Like hell you do. She _knows_ you do. In fear of being called an old man, those were the good old days. Before you spent long hours of blinding Alternian days worrying about Vriska’s safety. Before she started spending so much time with Tavros fucking Nitram.

Still. If they’re willing to pay that much… 

“I hope it’s not too dangerous,” you say. Vriska’s not the only one who can play nostalgic mind games. You see her flush with shame. Or is that anger?

“John, I thought we went over this,” she retorts, letting go of whatever emotion that had taken her hostage. She shifts forward so that her breasts are in your face. No fair, man. She really plays dirty sometimes. “There’s no job in the world that’s too dangerous for Miss Serket.”

You’re attempted to show her the cerulean stained towels that beg to differ, but you don’t need to. It seems as though she has anticipated this counter-attack.

“This is nothing,” Vriska explains, as if you are stupid and she is some type of martyr for sacrificing her breath by merely talking to you, “Wounds like this will heal in a couple of days, tops.” She’s right on that one. Highbloods heal ridiculously fast. “The only reason Tavros and I left this mission is because it wasn’t worth the pay for what they were asking us to do. If she had been willing to up the salary, I would have been more than happy to complete the task.”

Then she bites her lower lip and looks weirdly shy. She scoots forward even more, and spreads her legs so that she can get close enough to you to take your face with cold spindly fingers.

“Actually,” she adds, a twinge of excitement creeping into her voice. She sounds so adorable, like a kid on the 12th, and you’re not just thinking about that to suppress the way your blood burns at the sudden skin-to-skin contact.

Alien dick or not, you can’t help the way your body reacts to her. It’s like an instinct at this point. She is the question and your body answers.

Wait, no. She’s just about to say something. Something that is worth hearing.

“Something else happened that convinced us to turn in early,” Vriska continues once she’s assured she has your full attention. Well, once she knows that her words have your full attention. You are always completely focused on some aspect of her. It’s really hard not to be. She’s got a body strange enough to be exotic, but familiar enough to feel comfortable.

Plus, it’s really, really hot when she’s so confident about her body that she has no problem with, say, flashing her genitals at you and arching her perfect little titties up into the sky in that one long, sensuous movement she knows you love. 

Goddamnit, Egbert hormones. You turn back to her face and smile encouragingly.

“Well, I don’t know how else to say it, so I’ll just say it,” Vriska announced, and then, “We got a little sidetracked with sloppy makeouts. Tavros asked me to be his matesprit!”

Oh.

You try to smile. You try to look happy for her. You fail. You fail so _hard_.

“John?” Vriska asks, leaning in to take your hand, “What’s wrong?” On her face is genuine concern. She cares about you, no matter what anyone else says. She always has.

“N-nothing,” you lie. You are a terrible liar.

Vriska’s eyes widened. She places a hand to your cheek like she thinks you have a fever or something. “John… are you going to cry?”

Are you? No, no, no. You hold them back and smile wider. “No, I’m fine. It’s just…” 

How can you explain it to her? 

You know, logically, that you’re her moirail, and there are four other quadrants that Vriska had to fill, two of which were necessary for preserving her race through producing offspring. Also, you’re a human, so you don’t even really count as a real partner to her in the eyes of the society. It’s stupid to think that she would never be in a romantic relationship with another person.

But knowing something is different from feeling something, and you’ve always felt that she was your one and only, and somewhere, deep down, you had hoped that she reciprocated.

“It’s just…” You repeat. You sound like a broken record. Wonderful. “I wasn’t expecting that.” That’s not a lie. You thought Tavros hated her, after everything Vriska has done to him over the last few sweeps. Why would he ask to be her matesprit?

“Neither was I,” Vriska said. Shit. She was looking all dreamy.

You swallow the choking sob and pull away. “Okay, you’re ready for the tub now,” you say, “Time for your daily bath.”

Vriska watches you a while before shrugging and slipping down into the empty tub, letting out a hiss when her bare ass hits the cold acrylic, and then making herself comfortable with her knees pulled under her chin. 

You turn on the water, making it almost scalding hot just the way she likes it. Then you pour the bubbling soap in, for extra comfort to her. You know everything about her preferences. Tavros doesn’t. What does she need him for anyway… other than ensuring the continuation of their species? Which, you suddenly think, was such a bullshit reason to get with someone anyway.

The tub filled, you grab the soap and begin to lather it in between your hands. Vriska has many sponges and wash cloths, of course, but today you feel like skin to skin would be best.

Spiteful jealousy? What was that?

Vriska has no complaints, though. She begins to purr the second you get your palm on her back, rubbing the lotion into her skin. God you love the way her eyes roll back into her skull with pleasure and how she leans her whole body forward to give him more access.

You rearrange yourself and set to work, scrubbing every inch of her body as she purrs and squirms, making it hard to stay dry yourself.

It doesn’t matter much. You’re pretty much used to this by now. Besides, getting to see her _move_ like that, it isn’t even really sensual, not in the sexual sense, but it is intoxicating to know that you can do this to her. 

“John,” she moans. Okay, that was definitely sexual.

Your pants are getting the message, too. Wow, that’s embarrassing. You blush and know you have to let her know what she’s doing to you before things get… awkward.

“Vriska,” you begin, and flinch when she looks you right in the eyes.

You don’t even have to tell her. She glances down at your lap and gives you that smirk that says, “Ah, I thought so,” and you don’t have any way to defend yourself. 

“Sorry,” is all you can say.

Vriska just laughs. “Silly boy,” she purrs, “Why didn’t you just say so?” And then, she reaches out a hand, leans her torso over the edge so that her breasts are just dangling there, all soapy and soft, and grabs you right in between the legs.

You gasp and lurch forward on your knees, shamefully unable to stifle your reaction. It’s not like this is the first time this has happened, but…

“What about Tavros?” You ask.

Vriska looks at you like you’re crazy. Did you imagine her saying that they hooked up? “What about Pupa? Did you want him to join?” She snickers. “John, I had no idea you were into that sort of stuff. I thought bulges other than your own freaked you out.”

What? “No!” You cry out, “I mean, if he’s your matesprit now, you shouldn’t cheat on him.”

Now she’s really confused. “What are you talking about, John? I’m not cheating on Tavros. Does it look like I’m that sort of girl? Is that what you think of me?”

Oh no. You’re in dangerous waters now.

“Nope, not at all, I just—” _You’re still holding my dick_ , you want to say. _Do you see nothing wrong with this?_ You want to pull away, but she’s kind of hooking her fingers, and that… might be a little painful.

“Just…?” She prompts, rolling her palm against you and _oh merciful God in heaven_.

You lurch up into a more upright position, face so red that you can feel the heat radiating off of you in waves. One hand shakily goes to the edge of the tub to keep your balance as her thumb makes a light brush over the tent in your pants, almost like an apology. “Vriska,” you say, torn between wanting her to stop and never, ever wanting her to stop.

“John,” she says back, her tongue exotic in her mouth as she moves it around to form your name. Her thumb gives another curious caress.

“This is what matesprits do, isn’t it? We’re not matesprits.”

You expected her to be angry. She is not. Vriska is wearing an expression of surprised amusement. “What do you mean?” She pauses, as if deep in thought. At least her fingers have stopped their amazing but distracting work on your privates. “You mean sexual stuff?”

“Y-yeah,” you mumble, wondering why it took her so long to get it, “That’s it, isn’t it? The difference between flushed and pale? Conciliatory versus concupiscent?”

Vriska rolls her eyes at you. “Do you even know what those words mean, John? God.” 

You sit back on your knees and try to put on your best learning face. Why isn’t she removing her hand? She actually expects you to listen to her lesson with her hand right th—

You realize she is talking again. “—from the old troll Latin word “cupi”, like the mythical baby creature Cupid, the horrid creature of nightmares that forced feelings of the unrelenting desire to mate upon unsuspecting trolls, and “escere”, meaning a state of being. It is therefore solely reserved for quadrants that are related to mating fondness, an ardent and desirous emotion. It is excitement. It is chaos. Conciliatory, however, means to appease or pacify, or, in its lesser used definition, to overcome distrust or animosity. It is the opposite of excitement. It is order. To take a person who is filled with pain and regret and rage, and to take away their emotions in the attempt to give them peace of mind. To overcome your own conceptions about yourself and the world around you long enough to build a bridge between yourself and another, to know them fully, completely, and wish nothing but the best for them.

“The difference between flushed and pale, and to a greater extent, black and ashen, is so much more complex than the difference between sexual and nonsexual. If the act of helping another release sexual tension brings their partner to a more relaxed state, is that not also a form of conciliation? I just mean to say that they aren’t necessarily mutually exclusive concepts.”

Vriska’s hand continues its work, and even though you don’t really understand – troll romance is so confusing, needlessly complicated – you don’t complain. If she sees nothing wrong with this, and Tavros doesn’t, either—

“So Tavros wouldn’t mind?” You ask. You don’t think much of the guy, but you’re not going to do sexy things with his matesprit behind his back, either.

Vriska leans in close so that you can hear her trilling laughter right in your ear, squeezing the lump in your hands with the result of sweeps of practice. It is terribly hard to see straight, much less concentrate on anything. You can’t help but rock into her movements, feeling the pressure building in the base of your spine. 

She slows down, allowing you to appreciate every single brush that turns you into a moaning, shivering mess, trying desperately to keep yourself from toppling over. You have to use your other hand, adding that to the tub’s edge. It is placed under Vriska’s body, and one of her nipples brushes against the back of your hand as she shakes with laughter. The simple touch has you thrusting into her hand, and caught in between closing your eyes to hide from her knowing smile and opening them to stare at her glorious naked body.

“Of course Pupa won’t mind,” Vriska says, and you’re barely focused on her words, but you “mhm” anyway, because you feel like that’s the appropriate thing to do. “John, you and I are moirails. It is a sacred bond, and Pupa has no business to ask about what we do in our alone time. Whatever we do together stays between us.” She begins to rub harder, and you’re aroused enough at this point that it feels ridiculously good, and only hurts in the best possible way.

“Vriska,” you plead, so close and yet so opposed to creaming your pants.

In response, she leans her body over more and uses one hand to unzip you while she uses the other to pull your aching erection out.

“Our relationship is pure, John, reserved from all others,” she says as she pumps your length between her hands, “No one ever asks what moirails do in the privacy of their piles. Moirallegiance is the least understood and most important relationship a troll can have. It is whatever a pair needs it to be, what they need to keep them from the brink of insanity.”

But she was driving you insane, not relieving you of it. You haven’t the heart to tell her, though, so you grab her face and kiss her, kiss her hard so she can stop concentrating on her lesson on troll romance and start concentrating on finishing you off. You’re so close, and your hips are moving almost of their own accord now, and her hands won’t stop their incessant, powerful strokes, pumping her palm against your tip, and that’s all you can take—

You howl as you come, slumping against her damp, soapy body as your whole being radiates with the force of your orgasm, riding it out with a few twitchy movements of your hips. Vriska does not let up and doesn’t stop her work on your dick until you can’t see anything but white.

As you start to regain some sense of clarity, you realize that Vriska is laying kisses down your neck, sweet and oddly shy. 

“See? Now don’t you feel better?” She asks you, “I know you, John. I know you need this sort of intimacy to feel truly bonded to someone. Be assured, now: I will never let Pupa get in between what we have.” She nuzzles your hair fondly. “You are my moirail, my soul’s true mate.”

You… think you actually understand now. Or maybe the afterglow is messing with your head.

“Now get in the bath,” she advises, back in her usual bossy tone, “You’re a mess, and it’s my job to make sure you are squeaky clean.” And then, “I would do anything for you, John.”

You climb into the tub as advised, and slump your overstimulated body against her shoulder. “I would do anything for you, Vriska,” you say back.

“Good,” she says, and kisses your forehead, “Because I’ll need your help in my next mission.”

Oh, god. You close your eyes and nod, feeling slightly taken advantage of. You have no idea what she’s going to need you for, and you’re too tired to ask.


	3. Chapter 3

You float on a murky white wave of afterglow for a little while, head pillowed against her breast. You’re not even sure you’re still awake, but if you are, your sleep is dreamless. You are aware only of Vriska’s sharp troll claws, which she is using to comb something wet and gooey – your brain registers the textile as shampoo – into your hair. She will never harm you. She will never allow anyone else to harm you. You can rest easily now.

She is talking, but don’t hear the words. Her voice, though, soothes you into a numb coma. You ride the ups and downs of her vocals. 

==>John: Wake up

It is the unlocking of the front door that finally stirs you from your nap.

“Hey, sleepy-head,” Vriska laughs, and helps to wipe some sleep from the corner of your eye. Her claw just barely skims by your eyeball, but it doesn’t hurt, and you don’t flinch.

You yawn and stretch out your body. “How long was I out?”

“I’m not sure,” Vriska replies, “Probably around twenty minutes.” She pauses, listens at the noise at the front of the hive. “She’s late again,” she adds in a grumpy voice.

You grunt an affirmative response. Despite how much the two fight, it’s your belief that Vriska cares for her genetic clone. You think back to your younger days when you and your twin Jade were inseparable, and know the feeling.

The footsteps are getting closer, and then you hear her knock at the door.

“Having your daily bath again?” She asks through the door, sounding exhausted as per usual. Her matesprit is always doing this to her. Vriska has expressed frustration about this to you before in your feelings jams, which supports your theory that deep down, Vriska really does care for Aranea.

“Why do you even bother to ask when you already know the answer?” Vriska answers, glaring at the door, “Just come out and say what you really want to say. You want the ablution chamber to yourself.”

“Fine,” you hear Aranea reply, her voice going a bit testy. She is not easily annoyed, and both Vriska and you get the hint, “Can I please have the ablution chamber to myself? It’s been a long night and morning, and tonight I’m going to have to get up and do it all over again.”

You see Vriska torn between her desire to be snarky and the pulls of sisterly kinship. You put a finger to her lips and offer a simple, soft, “Shoosh.”

She gets the idea. “Oh, fiiiiiiiine,” she replies, “Just give us a second to wash off.”

“Oh,” Aranea says. She sounds pleasantly surprised, obviously having anticipated one of their usual spats. Again, she says, “Oh.” And then, “Thank you, Vriska.”

==>Wait, hold up. The pre-scratch trolls are here?

In a manner of speaking, they are. After the drones began experimenting with twins, they found the genetic code to recreate something close in trolls, a sort of experiment that had each troll egg produce two grubs instead of one, who were genetic clones of one another.

These genetic clones share the same hatch name, grow up in the same hive, and have the same horn shape and blood color. Some genetic clones even look identical, but most have enough differences to make them separate from human twins. Both in turn are clones of their shared ancestor, with only a few varying genes taken from their ancestor’s lovers. 

Although the process was a success in general, the drones did run into many problems with introducing this revolutionary scientific breakthrough to their society.

For one, the genetic clones had to share a lusus, and some of the lusii began eating the weaker one, since they had not been bred to protect two trolls at the same time. The first generation of clones, therefore, had many losses.

Many of the grubs also were hatched with a higher percentage of mutations than earlier generations, which meant that most of the mutated grubs had to be put to death mere minutes after hatching.

The second generation was hatched with far less problems, although the number of mutations and deaths by lusii was still worryingly high. This is the generation of the Serkets, Vriska and Aranea, as well as their friends.

The third generation that came after them would be the one recorded as a success by historians sometime in the future. However, it is not their story that will be told, nor their grubs that will be remembered. It is somehow the fate of these second generation clones to rise above the rest and turn their society on its head. They are the ones who are more flawed than the third, and yet not as flawed as the first. There is something poetic about this balance that would have made them heroes of something in another life, perhaps. The survivors of a universe-wide apocalypse, perhaps.

In this story, they have a very different destiny to fulfill, though by no means less important.

==>Be one of the other genetic clones of Vriska’s generation

Could you be more specific? There are twelve sets of genetic clones that will be vital to this story, leaving a grand total of twenty-four trolls to choose from. Excluding the two that have already made an appearance, which leaves us with twenty-two.

==>Be the most important one

Perhaps you are expecting a witty response about all of the trolls being equally important? No such luck. There is in fact one of the trolls of this generation that shines above the others. Though the reason for this may not be obvious at first, it’s best to give the guy a chance.

==>Alright, be him

Yes, such a troll would surely be doing something very important right now, wouldn’t he? He is currently in danger, so it would make sense that he is preparing to fight, or make himself scarce. Perhaps he is even going farther than that, and reaching out to others to warn them of the danger.

But you are making a mistake in assuming so. You believe that he is already the wise and just leader that he is destined to be. He is not.

Our mystery troll is of course Karkat Vantas, a mutant with a color of blood similar in color to human blood, a trait almost completely alien to trolls. Except for one notable exception: the Sufferer, the ancient troll whose death transformed Alternia into the planet it is today. The Sufferer is also, conveniently, the one whose sole genetic clone is none other than Karkat. Well, him and his own clone, Kankri. Except, neither one knows which one of them is the original, and if asked, both would assume Kankri, though Karkat would never admit such a thing out loud.

Karkat Vantas, the Sufferer’s original prodigy, knows nothing about his destiny for greatness, nor his connection to the most famous troll of all time. Today, he knows only heartache.

==>Karkat: Be disturbed by Kankri during moment of heartache

“Karkat, please unlock this door,” his voice repeats for the thousandth time that day. He is ridiculously good at talking for hours on end, “Karkat, this is important, and it is very rude of you to ignore me. Thankfully I know you well enough to know you mean no offense by it, but you have to be careful not to exhibit similar behavior around others. You may end up triggering them, and that would be—”

You turn the volume on your television set up so that you don’t have to listen to his incessant nagging. Some may say that he only means well. When it comes to that sort of people, well, you have a special finger you’d be happy to show them.

Hopefully your crab lusus interrupts soon. Even he can only stand the sound of Kankri’s voice for so long, and tends to silence him with a claw to his head.

This is one of the reasons you like your terribly annoying guardian, despite being as chatting at Kankri some days. The other reason is the fact that he never had a problem taking care of both of you at the same time, like some other lusii you know. He seemed to recognize that you and your clone were a package deal, and has never tried to eat either of you.

Days like this, though, you almost wished he had eaten Kankri. You can still hear him over the sound of troll John Cusack’s voice. You’re on the highest level of volume, too. How is that even possible? 

It’s starting to hurt your ears, though, so you turn it down again. Time to move to a different approach. “Shut the everloving fuck up, Kankri, or I’ll shove this remote up your tight little virgin nook,” you snarl, knowing how much he hates it whenever you use foul language.

“Karkat, my brother, I know you’re in pain, but please try to refrain from taking it out on others,” is his predictable response, “and do not use such colorful, offensive language. Need I remind you that I am celibate by choice, and in any case, ‘virgin’ is not an insult? There is no shame in waiting for the right person before sexual consummation, just as there is no shame in choosing not to be sexual at all. I for one—”

“No, you don’t need to remind me,” you retort back, “Because you’ve already blabbed to every-fucking-one in the lawnring and their lusus about your valiant efforts not to thrust your dirty genitals into everything like a goddamn hoofbeast in heat. And I need not remind you how head-imploding stupid the whole thing is, because it ensures your death the second the imperial drones show up at the door.”

There is silence. Did you win? No, you’re not stupid enough to believe that.

“That’s actually what I wanted to talk to you about,” he says, weirdly shy, “We need to get a move on. Or did you forget what day it is?”

How could you forget? “It’s our ninth wriggling day,” you answer dryly, “What the fuck else? It’s just another day to contemplate the fact that we were never supposed to have survived our time in the brooding caverns and pupated into the massive clusterfucks we are today.”

“Yes, but you’re forgetting what it also means,” Kankri continues, still in a voice you’ve never heard from him before. Compassionate, somehow. You didn’t even know he could be compassionate. “The drones are going to come for us in the next couple of days to test us for genetic purity, to see if we’re good enough to breed. Once they find out about our mutation, Karkat, they’re going to kill us.”

Ah, right. Your mutation. The mutation that you and Kankri share, as a matter of fact. It is the only thing you two have in common, aside from your nubby little horns. It’s the only reason you can stand one another. You glance down at the tissues making a little fort around your feet, stained with an almost pinkish color from where you rubbed away your tears. You cannot hide from its color, which haunts you even in your nightmares. It is ridiculous that you’ve lived so long, and will die so soon.

“Yeah, they will kill us,” you reply, feeling calm admitting the words out loud, “So what? We both knew this day would come eventually.”

Another long drag of silence. You would be feeling rather happy about this accomplishment if your heart wasn’t broken in a thousand tiny jagged pieces. Feeling water prickle at the edge of your eyes, you pick up another tissue and wipe it away before you start crying again.

“You’re just going to let them kill you?” Kankri’s hand taps at your door, not knocking anymore, just longing to have it removed from in between the two of you, you think. “Karkat…”

“I don’t know,” you say, because you don’t. You’ve entertained the idea, anyway.

This time Kankri says nothing for so long you wonder if he’s still even there. But you don’t hear him walk away. He’s just standing there, outside your room, silent.

“This isn’t about Terezi, is it?” Kankri asks finally.

“Don’t say her name,” you say quickly, feeling the water threaten at the edge of your eyes again. No, no, no. You do not want to start crying again.

“So it is about her. Don’t tell me you’re still upset over that.”

At that, you flinch, and grab another tissue to muffle your screams of denial, because they would be lies. Terezi, your former matesprit, who left a large hole in you when she left. Terezi, who you loved and adored and worshipped. Gone, gone, gone. 

“Karkat, you can let yourself die over your ex,” Kankri tells you, “If she had the nerve to break it off with you, then she’s not worth that. She’s not even worth your tears.”

“You fucking know nothing about what she’s worth, you venomous rot,” you snarl, trying to think of the most vicious, painful words you know, “You’re a fucking fake, Kankri, such a false martyr, you don’t even believe half of the garbage you spew on a daily basis, I know you don’t, you condescending shit. I hate you, I fucking hate you.” You choke and blubber back into your tissues, shaking with anger and disgust and agony and longing.

Another tap of claws at your door. “Karkat, you knew it wasn’t going to last,” he says, “If she found out your blood color… she didn’t find it out, right?”

“No she fucking didn’t!” You bite your lip and shut your eyes. Such lies. But you can’t tell Kankri the truth. He always advised you never to tell her. Technically, you didn’t tell her. She figured it out by licking your skin and smelling your resulting blush. And then she found it out again and again in your passionate throes of love-making on those wonderful days you spent at her hive.

“Besides,” you admit after a second, “I’m the dipshit that broke it off.”

“Oh. Well. Though it pains me to admit it, you’ve done her a favor,” Kankri continues, the fucker, not knowing when to stop flapping his godforsaken maw, “The drones would not have accepted you as her matesprit and would have culled her for allowing you to, pardon my language, fill her bucket. You should be proud of yourself for protecting her.”

The fuck? The actual asslicking fuck? “Kankri, shut the fuck up,” you warn, “I will seriously hurt you if you don’t stop saying shit like that right the fuck now.”

By now, he’s learned when you mean it. “I apologize,” he says, “I just… don’t hang back here and die. Promise me you won’t do that. Can’t you stay at Gamzee’s hive for a while? Until the new Baroness is chosen, anyway? Then we can come out of hiding.”

You snort. “If Feferi is chosen, you mean. I doubt Meenah would lift a fin to help us if she ended up taking over the throne.” She had had a crush on you once, you remember, but still. She was bloodthirsty and dangerous, underneath her charm, and you aren’t going to rely on her to save you like you’re a fucking damsel in distress or something. “And of course I can’t stay at Gamzee’s hive. He’s my moirail. That’s the most fucking obvious place I could go. Might as well just stay here and write ‘mutant’ across my chest in neon yellow paint.”

Kankri only grunts, which is a nice surprise.

You curl up tighter and close your eyes. Right, Gamzee. Your moirail. That is why you cannot allow the drones to find you and kill you. It’d be sentencing Gamzee to death.

It is a common courtesy for drones to kill the moirail of any troll they kill, for the sake of mercy. Being doomed to a life without a companion is something that not even the Condesce herself would wish upon anyone. Matesprits and kismesises were great, but trolls rarely met with their more concupiscent quadrantmates once they were adults, except during that time of the sweep when the drones came with the filial pails. As for auspistices, even the few trolls that were lucky enough to have one or be one would admit that they weren’t quite the same as having a moirail to lean on. A relationship with three trolls instead of two required each person to be paid half the attention from both lovers.

And even if they didn’t kill Gamzee, either by excluding him because of his high rank on the hemospectrum or not knowing he occupied your pale quadrant, how would he survive in the real world without you there to guide him? He’s a total loss, the oblivious bastard, and would likely do something that ended up getting him killed anyway, if not something worse.

Killing him at that point _would_ be a mercy, and that hurts. It hurts because it means that your existence will always threaten the safety of the one troll you’re intolerably, painfully pale for.

“I’ll find somewhere else to go,” you say suddenly, “Where are you going?”

“Porrim has invited me to stay with her,” comes Kankri’s answer. Ah, obviously. You don’t know why you even bothered.

“Are you sure?” You ask, “Remember, your moirail’s hive will be the first place they check.”

You hear him sucking in a breath. Oh great, here it comes. You suppose you asked for this one. “She is not my moirail,” Kankri begins, “As I have already corrected you on this matter on several different occasions, I cannot imagine why you would still suggest such a thing. Porrim is my friend and nothing more. I am celibate, as you very well know and have even mentioned earlier in this very conversation. I doubt that the fact would slip from your memory so easily. Furthermore, Porrim is fluid with her quadrants, and never intends upon settling on any one troll. And if you follow that line of reasoning, the conclusion is that Porrim and I will never have our pale quadrants filled. Therefore, as an extended line of reasoning, we will certainly never fill our pale quadrants with one another.”

You roll your eyes, but cut him some slack. You can tell he’s so pale for her that it kills him, and fuck if Porrim wasn’t even more obvious about it. She knits him sweaters with his cancer symbol on it because she gets frustrated with seeing him tuck his shirt into his pants. She calls him Kanny and dotes on him like she thinks she’s his lusus. Even when he insults her ideas about gender equality, she still stays loyal to him with an intensity that not even your most romantic of paleroms can recreate. Anyone with eyes can see that they need one another.

“Look, all I’m saying is, everyone thinks she’s your moirail already, so wouldn’t it make more sense to go somewhere a little less conspicuous? Like… I don’t know. Do you have any other friends?”

A low blow, but by no means unfounded. “Of course,” Kankri replies, “Although I recognize that your question was likely rhetorical and meant only to antagonize me. Now that you mention it, however, I see that putting Porrim in that sort of position would be problematic. Cronus is a possibility, actually. I think I may ask him if he would be willing to let me stay at his hive.”

“That tool? Are you serious?” You have no idea what Kankri sees in him. At least his clone, Eridan, has redeeming qualities. “How can you trust _him_ to protect you?”

This is another conversation the two of you have had before. His voice grows just the tad bit bitter as he says, “At least Cronus isn’t the Ampora responsible for planning various genocide attacks. Cronus does not care about the hemospectrum.”

You roll your eyes. “Eridan was never serious about any of those. It was kind his weird way of pining for attention. He’s kind of an attention whore, if you haven’t fucking noticed. Like Cronus.” You wipe away the rest of your tears, turn off the movie, and push yourself up from the floor. It’s time to stop fooling around and save your own ass before the drones come for you. “Besides, I’d never trust Eridan to protect me. I know he’s obsessed with the hemospectrum. What I don’t see is how you don’t see that Cronus is the same way. At least Eridan is honest about being a bigoted dickwad.”

“I have to disagree with your assessment of his character,” Kankri argues, or begins to.

“Hell, Kankri, if you feel that way, why don’t you ask him to make you his fucking matesprit already? At least then he’d have _somebody_ to fill a pail with when the drones come a-knocking.”

Kankri huffs. “Need I remind you again—”

“That due to your tight-assedness, you will never do the nasty with anyone ever,” you finish for him, “Yeah, I got that the first million times you’ve reminded me. Sorry to let you in on the news, Kankri, but you kind of are required to fill at least two buckets with some lucky guys or gals someday. It’s kind of the law of the land. I don’t even get why you choose to be celibate anyway. It seems like a really stupid thing to do, even by your standards. And don’t try to fool me by telling me you’re not interested. If I catch you staring at Latula’s ass one more time I’m going to hurl every meal I’ve ever eaten, I swear to God.”

You open the door finally, so that you can see the blanched pallor of his face. “Latula and I are friends, Karkat, I would never stare at any part of her without her permission! Just because I notice her attractive qualities—”

“No,” you cut him off once more. You’re good at it. It’s become necessary for survival. Kankri’s survival, anyway. You wouldn’t want to have to tear him a new nook the night that his relentless rants finally drive you into insanity. “Listen to the romance master. That would be me, in case you were fucking lost on the issue. Got that cleared up? Good. Now drive this through your think pan: you are as pale as bone for Porrim, as red as roses for Latula, and god knows what for Cronus… hero-worship, secret caliginous leanings, animalistic lust, I don’t care. Just fill a pile or a pail or whatever gets your bleating hoofbeast before you release any more of your romantic and or sexual tension on me by way of long-winded sermons. Most of what you manage to vomit up is complete garbage anyways, and I think you know that as well as I do.”

“I am very disappointed in you, Karkat,” he says (oh God, what now?), “I don’t believe it’s too much to ask for you to accept my preferred lifestyle choices. I of course use the term ‘preferred lifestyle choice’ with great reluctance, as it is a loaded term. For instance, while celibacy is a chosen lifestyle, it is often connected with asexual, which is of course not a lifestyle at all, and—”

He never shuts up. You do the very worst thing you could possibly do in this situation: you place your hand over his mouth. Kankri hates being touched. He flinches against your hand and pulls back, probably about to say something about feeling triggered.

“Look,” you try to explain it to him slowly, “I honestly wouldn’t care less about who you do the nasty with or whether you don’t do the nasty with anyone at all if you lived somewhere else. But you live with me in our _shared hive_ and as long as I have to keep being effected by your ‘preferred life choices’ I’m going to bitch about it.”

You slam the door back in his face before he can respond and shout, “Now be quiet, will you? I’m going to text Gamzee!” 

Yes, that’s the best thing you can do right now. You can’t go to his hive, but maybe he’ll have some suggestions. Your only other choices that you can think of are Terezi and Sollux… both of which are not options anymore. You’d think your best friend would have been a little more supportive during your break up with Terezi, but the two of them have been friends longer than anyone else you know, and besides, Sollux has always been stupidly pale for her.

You understand that, of course. You’re nearly adults now, and the need for full quadrants is replacing the importance of friends. Adults don’t need friends, since they would hardly see one another anyway. It’s better that Sollux and you drift apart now rather than later.

As soon as you pick up your phone, you realize that you have various unread messages, from none other than the guy you were planning on talking to.

\--terminallyCapricious [TC] has begun trolling carcinoGeneticist [CG]--

TC: WhOoOaAa My MaIn MoThErFuCkEr.  
TC: DoN’t Go ThInKiNg ThAt I aLl Up AnD fOrGoT wHaT sOrTs Of MiRaCuLoUs ShIt We’D bEsT bE cElEbRaTiNg ToDaY.  
TC: SeEmS tO mE iT wAs JuSt YeStErDaY yOu WeRe An AdOrAbLe LiTtLe WrIgGlEr AlL wAvInG yOuR aRmS aRoUnD aNd FlIpPiNg YoUr MiDdLe FiNgEr Up LiKe A rIgHtEoUs FlAgPoLe At AnY mOtHeRfUcKeR wHo LoOkEd At YoU fUnNyLiKe.  
TC: WhAt I’m SaYiNg Is  
TC: HaPpY wRiGgLiNg DaY bEsT fRiEnD!  
TC: HoNk :O)  
TC: DiD yOu KnOw ThAt In HuMaN fOlKlOrE tHeY hAd ClOwNs ThAt CaMe To ThEiR hOuSeS oN tHeIr WrIgGlInG dAyS? iT mUsT hAvE bEeN a ReAl SaCrEd DaY tO tHeM hUmAnS.  
TC: DoN’t SoUnD lIkE a HaLf-BaKeD iDeA, dOeS iT? tHeY’d CoMe AnD mAkE fUnNy ShApEs WiTh BaLlOoNs AnD jUgGlE cLuBs AnD dO aLl SoRtS oF mIrAcLe StUfF.  
TC: AiN’t ThAt SoMeThInG? mAkEs My ThInK pAn HuRt JuSt ThInKiNg AbOuT iT.  
TC: BuT kNoWiNg ThAt ThE tWiN mEsSiAhS aRe No AlIeNs To AnY uNiVeRsE iS sOmEtHiNg ThAt I dOn’T nEeD tO tRy To GeT mY uNdErStAnDiNg On FoR. cAuSe It’S jUsT a ThInG tHaT iS.  
TC: MaKeS mE fEeL bItChTiTs EcStAtIc ThAt ThErE aIn’T nO wOrLd ThAt Is YeT uNtOuChEd By ThE dArK lUrEs Of ThE cArNiVaL. tHeRe AiN’t JuSt MiRaClEs In OuR pArT oF sPaCe, BuT iN aLl ThE sPaCe BeYoNd It. ‘S tHe MoThEr Of MiRaClEs HoNkHoNkHoNk :O)  
TC: AaAnYwAy, I kNoW yOu DoN’t CaRe FoR tHe PrEaChInG nOiSe  
TC: AnD i DiDn’T mEaN tO gO sPiNnInG oFf ThIs ToP fOr ThAt LiTtLe TaNgEnT.  
TC: JuSt GoT uP aNd AwAy FrOm Me LiKe OnE oF tHoSe BaLlOoNbEaStS bEfOrE i EvEn KnEw It WaS sLiPpInG oUt Of My FiNgErS lIkE iT nEvEr BeLoNgEd ThErE iN tHe FiRsT pLaCe.  
TC: I wAs JuSt BrInGiNg Up ThAt PaRtIcUlAr PoInT bEcAuSe I hAd SoMe QuEsTiOnS tO bE pOiNtInG yOuR wAy.  
TC: AbOuT tHe ClOwNs AnD tHe HuMaN wRiGgLiNg DaY tRaDiTiOn  
TC: I wAs JuSt WoNdErInG iF yOu’D bE oPeN tO tHe IdEa Is AlL. i KnOw YoU lIkE nOtHiNg BeTtEr ThAn GeTtInG yOuR hArSh On YoUrSeLf On ThIs PaRtIcUlAr DaY oF tHe SwEeP wHeN yOu GeT aNoThEr NuMbEr To Be HoLdInG tO yOuR nAmE.  
TC: BuT sInCe ThIs Is YoUr NiNtH aNd It’S kInD oF sPeCiAl  
TC: WeLl  
TC: I cOuLd AsK sOmE oF mY hUmAn BuDdIeS hErE tHe DeTaIlS  
TC: AnD i CoUlD gEt DrEsSeD uP aS oNe Of ThEiR hUmAn ClOwNs  
TC: JuSt In CaSe ThEy’Re At AlL dIfFeReNt FrOm OuR cLoWnS yOu KnOw  
TC: AnD wE cOuLd CeLeBrAtE.  
TC: OnLy If ThAt’S wHaT yOu WaNt, CaUsE i’M nOt GoInG tO mOtHeRfUcKiN sToP yOu If YoU gOt YoUr BlOoD pUsHeR sEt On SoMeThInG eLsE eNtIrElY.  
TC: So WhAt Do YoU sAy?  
TC: PaLeBrO aRe YoU tHeRe?  
TC: YoU mUsT bE rEaL sErIoUs AbOuT yOuR lOyAlTy To YoUr GoOd OlD sElFhAtInG rItUaLs HuH?  
TC: ThOuGh It HuRtS mE tO sEe YoU bEiNg HaRsH oN yOuRsElF wHeN yOu AiN’t DoNe NoNe To DeSeRvE aNy ShIt FrOm AnYbOdY, lEsT oF aLl YoUrSeLf.  
TC: YeAh  
TC: So AlRiGhT kArKaT jUsT mEsSaGe Me WhEn YoU nEeD mE oKaY. :o)

\--terminallyCapricious [TC] has ceased trolling carcinoGeneticist [CG]\--

What a moron. Like fuck you want a shitty clown, yet alone one of those rainbow-colored human ones, visiting you at your hive on your wriggling day. Even if said clown is Gamzee. Actually, especially if that clown is Gamzee. It looks like it’s too late, anyway. The night’s almost over.

Oh well. It’s not like any power in the universe could have ever compelled you to accept his offer anyway. He’s such a moron.

\--carcinoGeneticist [CG] has begun trolling terminallyCapricious [TC]\--

CG: HEY SHITTY EXCUSE FOR A CLOWN  
CG: ARE YOU STILL AWAKE OR HAVE YOU GONE TO SLEEP YET?  
TC: MaAaN wOuLd YoU lOoK aT tHaT  
TC: It’S jUsT tHe MoThErFuCkEr ThAt WaS oCcUpYiNg My ThInK pAn NoT mOrE tHaN a MiNuTe AgO.  
TC: HoW’d YoU kNoW i’D bEeN tHiNkInG oF yOu?  
CG: OKAY, SERIOUSLY STOP.  
CG: I KNOW YOU LIKE TO INDULGE MY SOFT SPOT FOR RIDICULOUSLY CHEESY ROMANCE ESCAPADES, BUT EVEN I KNOW THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN A CLICHÉ BUT NOSTALGICALLY SWEET PICK UP LINE AND LAYING IT ON SO FUCKING THICK THAT I’M DROWNING IN IT.  
CG: YOU HAVE CROSSED THAT LINE. YOU ARE SO PAST THAT BOUNDARY THAT YOU CAN’T EVEN SEE THE LINE IN THE DISTANCE ANYMORE.  
TC: HaHaHaHa BrO yOu ArE jUsT tHe CuTeSt MoThErFuCkIn ThInG wHeN yOu GeT yOuR bRiStLeS oN fOr Me.  
TC: MaKeS a TrOlL fEeL rIgHtLy NeEdEd.  
TC: :O)  
CG: OH MY GOD WHAT DID I JUST SAY?  
CG: IS THERE A PARTICULAR REASON YOU’RE SWEET-TALKING ME LIKE SOME FUCKING CRIMINAL PLEADING FOR HIS LIFE ON HIS EXECUTION CHAIR?  
TC: WeLl It Is YoUr WrIgGlInG dAy KaRkAt.  
CG: OH, IS IT? I MAY HAVE FORGOTTEN THAT. HAD IT SLIP MY MIND. CAUSE WHAT SORT OF ASSHOLE WOULDN’T EASILY FORGET THE DAY THAT REPRESENTS WHAT VERY WELL MIGHT BE THE BEGINNING OF THE LAST SWEEP THEY HAVE TO LIVE?  
TC: :O(  
TC: DoN’t SaY tHaT bRo.  
CG: I JUST  
CG: URRG!  
CG: I’M SORRY, OKAY? I’M JUST MORE THAN A LITTLE STRESSED RIGHT NOW. I NEED TO FIND SOMEONE WHO WILL TAKE ME IN WHEN THE DRONES COME FOR MY ASS.  
TC: WeLl WhY dIdN’t YoU jUsT cOmE rIgHt OuT aNd AsK?  
TC: I’d LoVe To HaVe YoUr CuTe LiTtLe AsS hErE tO pRoTeCt FrOm ThE dRoNeS.  
TC: We CaN jUsT tHiNk Of It As SoMe UnNeCeSsArY bUt ApPrEcIaTeD mOtHeRfUcKiN pRaCtIcE fOr WhEn We LiVe SiDe By SiDe In ThE fUtUrE.  
CG: OH I  
CG: GAMZEE OKAY DON’T TAKE THIS THE WRONG WAY.  
CG: I WOULD LIKE TO STAY WITH YOU, SOMEDAY, IN OUR OWN HIVE.  
CG: THAT’S NOT EVEN A FUCKING ISSUE.  
CG: BUT NOW’S REALLY NOT THE TIME TO PLAY MAKE-BELIEVE WHAT LIFE WILL BE LIKE WHEN WE’RE ADULTS AND LIVE TOGETHER.  
CG: THE DRONES ARE GOING TO CULL ME IF THEY FIND ME.  
CG: AND WHEN THEY DON’T FIND ME AT MY HIVE, YOUR HIVE WILL BE THE FIRST FUCKING PLACE THEY’LL GO.  
CG: ACTUALLY, YOU SHOULD PROBABLY FIND A PLACE TO STAY TOO.  
TC: ShIiIiT mAn  
TC: YeAh ThAt’S a PrEtTy GoOd MoThErFuCkIn PoInT.  
TC: HoLd Up YoUrSeLf Up OvEr ThErE kArBrO i ThInK i GoT aN iDeA.  
CG: OH GOD.  
CG: SHOULD I START PRAYING TO YOUR WEIRD CLOWN DEITIES?  
CG: GAMZEE?  
TC: I gOt ThIs.  
TC: I jUsT aSkEd EqUiBrO iF hE’d LeT uS sTaY aT hIs PaRt Of ThE wOoDs.  
TC: :O)  
TC: He ShOuLd Be RePlYiNg In JuSt A mOmEnT nOw.  
CG: WAIT.  
CG: OH MY GOD PLEASE TELL ME YOU’VE JUST SPONTANEOUSLY CHOSEN THIS EXACT FUCKING MOMENT TO DEVELOP A SENSE OF HUMOR.  
CG: LIKE HAHAHA GAMZEE REALLY FUCKING FUNNY.  
TC: :O/  
TC: WaIt WhAt’S tHe JoKe?  
CG: HAHAHAHAHAHAHAH  
CG: I AM DYING OF THIS JOKE BECAUSE IT JUST KEEPS GETTING FUNNIER.  
CG: HAHAHAHA  
CG: WAIT  
CG: SOMEONE ELSE IS MESSAGING ME.

This can’t be good, you think. And for once, you’re absolutely right.

\--centaursTesticle [CT] has begun trolling carcinoGeneticist [CG]\--

CT: D --> Vantas  
CT: D --> I demand to know why the drones are after you  
CG: HOLY FLAMING SHIT IN A HANDBASKET.  
CT: D --> What ine%cusable crime are they holding you accountable for  
CG: EXCUSE ME EQUIUS  
CG: ACTUALLY, YOU KNOW WHAT, NEVER MIND.  
CG: DON’T EXCUSE ME.  
CG: I’M GOING TO PUT YOU ON FUCKING HOLD RIGHT NOW  
CG: I HAVE A CLOWN TO MURDER.  
CT: D --> Wait  
CT: D --> No Vantas I forbid this  
CT: D --> Do not harm the highb100d  
CT: D --> Karkat  
CT: D --> Do not harm Gamzee  
CG: YOU DO NOT GET TO TELL ME WHAT I CAN AND CANNOT DO WITH MY OWN GODDAMN MOIRAIL, SO DO THE ENTIRE WORLD A FAVOR AND SEW YOUR OWN MOUTH SHUT.  
CT: D --> Karkat no  
CT: D --> Please

Brewing with anger, you switch back to your conversation with Gamzee.

CG: OKAY, ASSHAT. WHO TOLD YOU THAT YOU COULD TELL THE MOST BIGOTED, IMPERIAL-HUMPING TRAINWRECK OF A COMPLETE WASTE OF AIR THAT THE DRONES ARE AFTER ME?  
CG: DID IT NEVER OCCUR TO YOU  
CG: HEY THIS EQUIUS GUY IS REALLY LOYAL TO AUTHORITY  
CG: TO THE POINT THAT HE LITERALLY GETS FUCKING AROUSED WHENEVER HE INTERACTS WITH ANYONE IN A POSITION OF AUTHORITY  
CG: AND IF I LET HIM KNOW THE FUCKING OTHER HALF OF MY SOUL IS IN TROUBLE WITH THE AUTHORITY  
CG: HE’LL HAVE FUN TURNING HIM IN AND THEN LIKE TOUCHING HIMSELF TO IT  
CG: BECAUSE HE IS SUCH A FUCKING PATRON.  
CG: ALSO THAT MENTAL IMAGE IS MAKING ME QUEASY AND I REGRET TYPING THAT.  
CG: OH FUCKING HELL IT WON’T GO OUT OF MY HEAD.  
TC: UhHhHhHhHhH  
CG: DON’T YOU UHHH ME.  
CG: EQUIUS? HE WAS *SERIOUSLY* YOUR FIRST OPTION?  
CG: GAMZEE PLEASE DON’T TELL ME YOU ARE ACTUALLY THIS STUPID. NOBODY IS ACTUALLY THIS STUPID.  
TC: UhH  
CG: GAMZEE.  
TC: MaN i KnOw EqUiBrO gOtS hIs KiNkS aNd StUfF  
TC: BuT i ThInK tHeY’rE jUsT aLl FoR sHoW yOu KnOw?  
TC: LiKe WhAt’S hE’s AdVeRtIsInG aNd WhAt He’S sElLiNg DoN’t QuItE mAtCh Up   
TC: BuT i SuPpOsE iF i’M wRoNg On AlL tHoSe LeVeLs AnD hE rEaLlY wAnTs To MoThErFuCkIn TuRn YoU iN  
TC: I cAn JuSt LiKe  
TC: OrDeR hIm NoT tO?  
CG: YOU  
CG: NOPE  
CG: I WOULDN’T TOUCH THAT WITH THE EMPRESS’ THIRTY FOOT TRIDENT.  
CG: IF YOU WANT TO ACTUALLY INDULGE HIS WEIRD FANTASIES AND PLAY THE DOMINATRIX TO HIS BAD SCHOOLGIRL ACT  
CG: I DO *NOT* WANT TO HEAR ABOUT IT.  
CG: EVER.  
TC: WhOa WhAt  
CG: NONE OF IT.  
CG: IN FACT, LET’S NOT TALK ABOUT IT ANYMORE.  
CG: THIS CONVERSATION NEVER FUCKING HAPPENED.  
CG: ANY FUTURE REFERENCE TO THAT CONVERSATION I WILL REGUARD AS THE RAMBLINGS OF A MADMAN AND VERY KINDLY FLIP YOU OFF.  
TC: KaRkAt ThAt AiN’t WhAt WaS gOiNg DoWn  
CG: LOOK HERE WE ARE.  
CG: RIGHT ON FUCKING CUE.  
CG: THE POETIC DRABBLES OF A TROLL WITH ROT IN HIS THINK PAN.  
CG: HELLO MENTALLY INSTABLE BEING  
CG: I WOULD LIKE TO INTRODUCE YOU TO MY MIDDLE FINGER.  
TC: I wOuLdN’t LeT hIm TuRn YoU iN kArBrO  
TC: :O(  
CG: OH AND WHAT IS THIS?  
CG: IT’S A SAD CLOWN FACE, MEANT TO ANTAGONIZE ME INTO FEELING PITY FOR THE DIPSHIT WHO SENT IT TO ME.  
CG: IF YOU REALLY WANT ME TO GAIN MY APPROVAL BACK  
CG: STOP MAKING BARKBEAST EYES. I KNOW I CAN’T ACTUALLY SEE THEM BUT I KNOW YOU’RE MAKING THEM, OKAY? I’M YOUR OTHER HALF. I CAN SENSE THESE THINGS.  
CG: PUT THE DRAMA MASK AWAY YET? OKAY GOOD.  
CG: THE SECOND STEP IS SLIGHTLY MORE DIFFICULT SO YOU BETTER READ MY TEXT CAREFULLY.  
CG: FUCKING *FIX* THIS.  
TC: FuCk YoU gOt It BrO  
TC: I’lL fIx ThIs LiKe ThE hAnDiEsT mOtHeRfUcKeR wHo EvEr DiD aNy FiXiNg  
CG: YOUR METAPHORS ARE HORRENDOUS.  
CG: ALSO UH  
CG: I SUPPOSE I’VE LEFT YOU HANGING LONG ENOUGH  
CG: SINCE YOU DID TRY TO HELP AND ALSO WANTED TO THROW ME A HUMAN THEMED BIRTHDAY AND ALSO YOU’RE JUST BEING A GENERAL SAP FOR NO OTHER PURPOSE THAN TO FEED MY NEED FOR A RIDICULOUSLY FLUFFY PALEMANCE…  
CG: THANKS  
TC: :Od  
CG: NOW FIX THIS BEFORE I REGRET SAYING THAT.  
TC: UnDeRsToOd BrOtHeR  
TC: HoNkHoNkHoNk

\--terminallyCapricious [TC] is now an idle troll!--

You want to trust Gamzee. You want to think that he’ll handle it. But the thing is, you know Gamzee. You know him so well that you’re not even surprised he went and asked Equius of all people. Because he believes the best in everyone. That’s why he’s one of the only friends that Equius has, because he’s one of the few people who can put up with that guy’s bullshit.

You end up pacing in your respiteblock, too on edge to sit down. Logically, Gamzee would surely protect you if Equius did turn you in. But that doesn’t mean you want that to happen.

Even if the thought of being back to back with your palemate, facing off certain annihilation together as one unit is an image straight out of your wildest romantic fantasies. That stuff is only romantic in movies or books. In real life, you’d just end up dead. And in real life, death isn’t romantic.

Finally, finally, you hear the familiar ping on an incoming message. Surprisingly, however, it isn’t from Gamzee. Or even from Equius.

\--cuttlefishCuller [CC] has begun trolling carcinoGeneticist [CG]\--

CC: )(ey karcrab!  
CG: FEFERI?  
CC: Of course!  
CC: W)(o else cod it be, silly?  
CC: It looks like you’ll be staying at my )(ive for a little w)(ile!  
CG: WHAT.  
CG: PEIXES ARE YOU SERIOUS.  
CC: Of course I’m serious you silly!  
CC: 38D  
CC: Pack your bags STRAIG)(T AWAY because all of us are going to )(ave SO MUC)( FUN!!  
CC: Glubglubglubglub!  
CG: WAIT WHO’S *ALL OF US*?  
CG: ACTUALLY, NO. FIRST TELL ME WHAT’S GOING ON.  
CG: DID GAMZEE ASK YOU IF I COULD STAY AT YOUR HIVE?  
CC: W)(ale…  
CC: Not exactly!  
CC: It’s more like… )(e asked me to order -Equius not to turn you into t)(e drones!  
CG: FUCK.  
CG: NO  
CG: GODDAMMIT I  
CG: YOU DIDN’T HAVE TO DO THAT.  
CC: It’s knot a big deal, Karcrab!  
CC: T)(oug)(, I reely fis)( you told me you were a mutant sooner.  
CC: Instead of getting -Equius involved.  
CG: LKJADFL  
CG: FUCK FEFERI DON’T JUST FUCKING TYPE THAT YOU OBTUSE SEASLUGE FUCK.  
CG: THE DRONES COULD HACK INTO YOUR ACCOUNT  
CG: THEY COULD FUCKINGCULL ME HOW DID THAT NOT CROSS YOUR WATERLOGGED THINK PAN OH GOD I’M GOING TO DIE.  
CG: AND MORE IMPORTANTLY  
CG: *GAMZEE* TOLD YOU I WAS A MUTANT??!  
CG: MY GAMZEE?  
CG: MY FUCKING PALE LOVERS FOR LIFE COVER EACH OTHER’S ASSES UNTIL WE DIE GAMZEE?  
CC: KARKAT, WAIT!  
CC: Please bereef me w)(en I glub t)(is to you.  
CC: Your morayeel didn’t want to tell me. I only got it out of )(im t)(roug)( a lot of clamming )(im aboat it. Trust me, )(is lips were seaeeled PR---ETTY tig)(t!  
CG: I DON’T CARE. THAT WASN’T HIS SECRET TO TELL.  
CG: HE FUCKING KNOWS THAT.   
CG: DESPITE BEING A VAPID BULGEMUNCH IN MOST ALL AREAS OF HIS SHITTY EXCUSE OF AN EXISTANCE, GAMZEE IS NOT SO BRAINDEAD TO BE CARELESS WITH INFORMATION THAT WOULD BE THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN LIFE AND DEATH.  
CG: *ESPECIALLY* IF THAT LIFE IS MINE.  
CG: WHO HE IS SUPPOSED TO BE FAITHFUL TO DUE TO THE LAWS OF THE DIAMOND ROMANCE.  
CC: Karkat, stop!  
CC: Don’t say suc)( t)(ings about your morayeel!  
CC: )(e pities you reely )(ard. I know )(e does. T)(at’s w)(y )(e came to me. I can K--ELP YOU.  
CC: You just )(ave to let me.  
CC: 38(  
CG: SORRY, PRINCESS.  
CG: I DON’T NEED YOUR *KELP*.  
CG: I MEAN, GOD, IS THIS ALL A GAME FOR YOU? YOU CAN’T EVEN BRING YOURSELF TO CARE ENOUGH TO STOP USING YOUR MIGRAINE-INDUCING NAUTICAL PUNS.  
CG: NEWS FLASH, YOUR MAJESTY: YOU’RE NOT SIX SWEEPS ANYMORE.  
CC: URRRG!!!  
CC: FIN--E  
CC: I will stop wit)( t)(e fis)( puns for a second.  
CC: Because I DO care about you!!  
CC: I don’t t)(ink ANY troll s)(ould get culled for being born wit)( a different blood color!  
CC: T)(at’s just stupid.  
CC: Glub.  
CC: Now will you PL--EAS--E come to my )(ive? I promise to protect you from t)(e drones.  
CC: Or… let your morayeel protect you, if t)(at’s w)(at you want.  
CC: Um, moirail.  
CC: Sorry t)(at one just kind of slipped out.  
CG: UHG.  
CG: FUCK I DON’T KNOW.  
CG: I GUESS I’M CONSIDERING IT NOW. MAYBE?  
CG: IT’S A FUCKTON BETTER THAN STAYING AT EQUIUS’ IN ANY CASE.  
CC: Sea?  
CC: I mean: See?  
CC: W)(oops again.  
CC: …Am I still not doing my fis)( puns?  
CG: UM. NAH I GUESS YOU CAN. IF YOU’RE REALLY SO ATTACHED TO THEM THAT YOU END UP MAKING THEM BY ACCIDENT.  
CG: JUST TO LET YOU KNOW THOUGH.  
CG: THAT MIGHT BE YOUR FIRST INDICATION THAT YOU HAVE A FUCKING PROBLEM.  
CC: 38O  
CC: Karcrab! Is t)(at any wave to speak to your savior and future empress?  
CG: YOU’RE NOT THE EMPRESS YET. AND BESIDES, I THOUGHT YOU DIDN’T GIVE A SHIT ABOUT THE WHOLE ROYALTY THING.  
CG: IT’S THE REASON YOU’RE SORT OF TOLERABLE.  
CC: )(--E)(--E)(--E!  
CC: I was just messing wit)( you, Karcrab!!!  
CC: Glub glub!  
CG: PLEASE NO MORE GLUBBING.  
CG: YOU’RE AS BAD AS GAMZEE WITH HIS HONKING.  
CG: LIKE IS THAT THE NEW THING? EVERYONE HAS TO HAVE A SIGNATURE SOUND NOW? IT’S NOT ENOUGH THAT WE ALL HAVE OUR OWN TYPING QUIRKS THAT ARE FUCKING IMPOSSIBLE TO READ SOME DAYS. WE ALSO HAVE TO PROVIDE OUR OWN SOUND EFFECTS?  
CG: THE FUCK WOULD MINE BE?  
CG: SKREE SKREE?  
CG: WOW THAT’S THE MOST ASININE SHIT I’VE EVER MANAGED TO PULL OUT MY OWN ASS. I’M NEVER DOING THAT AGAIN.  
CC: I don’t know. I t)(oug)(t it was CUT--E!  
CC: 38D  
CC: O)( before I forget I s)(ould also s)(ell you…  
CC: Because we can’t be sure t)(at -Equius will keep )(is mout)( s)(ut…  
CC: I’ve also invited )(im and Catfis)( to stay wit)( us!  
CG: OH.  
CG: OKAY I GUESS THAT MAKES SENSE.  
CG: EVEN IF IT’S GOING TO BE THE MOST FUCKING AWKWARD GROUP OF FUCKERS ALL TUCKED OFF INTO THE SAME SPOT. IT’LL BE LIKE A SHITTY SITCOM.  
CG: LET’S SEE HOW LONG IT TAKES FOR SOMEONE TO RIP SOMEONE ELSE’S FRONTAL LOBES OUT THROUGH THEIR NASAL PASSAGE.  
CC: 38(  
CG: ALSO WHO THE FUCK IS CATFISH?  
CG: YOU MEAN NEPETA, RIGHT? WHAT’S WRONG, I THOUGHT THE TWO OF YOU GOT ALONG.  
CC: We do!!   
CC: S)(e told me it was okay for me to cull )(er t)(at.  
CG: OKAAAY THEN.  
CG: WHAT THE AUTISTIC CAT GIRL DEEMS A SUITABLE NICKNAME FOR HERSELF ISN’T REALLY ANY OF MY BUSINESS I GUESS.  
CC: W)(y do you say t)(at?  
CC: Does it sound mean to call )(er Catfis)(?  
CG: I DON’T KNOW. TO ME, A LITTLE. I GUESS. YOU MIGHT JUST WANT TO THINK OF SOMETHING MORE CREATIVE IS ALL I’M SAYING.  
CG: ANYWAY, WE’RE GETTING OFF TOPIC.  
CC: )(a)(a, yea)(!  
CG: I DON’T THINK WE REALLY HAVE ANYTHING OF A SMIDGEON OF IMPORTANCE LEFT TO TALK ABOUT.  
CC: )(mm… guess knot!  
CG: ALRIGHT THEN.  
CG: SEE YOU LATER TONIGHT SOMETIME THEN. IF YOU DON’T MIND ME COMING SO EARLY.  
CC: Knot at all! T)(e sooner you come, t)(e betta!  
CC: 38D  
CG: OKAY.  
CG: THEN SEE YOU LATER.  
CC: Bye, Karcrab!!  
CC: Glub glub skree!!!!

\--carcinoGeneticist [CG] has ceased trolling cuttlefishCuller [CC]\--

Rubbing a tension headache in your temples, you switch back to Gamzee’s tag.

CG: HEY.  
TC: Oh HeY bEsT fRiEnD.  
TC: So… We GoOd NoW?  
CG: NOT QUITE YET, YOU DOPE-INFESTED LOON.  
CG: IF YOU THINK I’M GOING TO EASILY FORGET THE FACT THAT MY MOIRAIL ALMOST HANDED MY ASS RIGHT TO THE DRONES, YOU’RE IN FOR A HUGE FUCKING SURPRISE.  
TC: OhHhH…  
TC: So  
TC: DoEs ThIs MeAn  
TC: WhEn We GeT oUr AsSeS sItUaTeD iN fEfSiS’ hIvE…  
TC: I aIn’T aLlOwEd To GeT mY cUdDlEs On WiTh YoU lIkE i’Ve BeEn SaViNg Up FoR yOu FoR a LoNg MoThErFuCkIn TiMe Or NoThInG?  
CG: DON’T PUT WORDS IN MY MOUTH.  
CG: ESPECIALLY WHEN THEY SOUND AS MORONIC AS THE WORDS YOU SPEW ON A NIGHTLY BASIS.  
CG: IN FACT IT WILL BE JUST THE OPPOSITE.  
TC: CoMe AgAiN?  
CG: YOU WILL MAKE UP FOR YOUR GRIEVOUS ERROR BY WAY OF GENEROUS PAPS, SHOOSHES, AND JAMS.  
TC: MaAaAaAaAaAaN…  
TC: ThAt’D bE tHe BiTcHtItS bEsT pUnIsHmEnT i EvEr TuRnEd My AuRaLs On FoR.  
TC: PaLe FoR yOu DiAmOnD bRoThEr.  
CG: PALE FOR YOU TOO, YOU USELESS WASTE OF SPACE.

\--carcinoGeneticist [CG] has ceased trolling terminallyCapricious [TC]\--

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please excuse my horrendous attempt at writing Gamzee.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, there are going to be A LOT of ships in this story, and I only listed the main ones in the tags. Obviously, unless you're me, it's likely that there are going to be certain pairings that you, as the reader, aren't going to like. Most of these won't be extremely important to the story, though, so I assume you'll be fine reading the story anyway. However, I realize that there are some people who have a ship that they absolutely, completely loathe. And for this reason, I put together all the ships that will happen (these are all ENDGAME pairings, there will be others, too) that you can look at [here](http://www.freeimagehosting.net/94g74). However, please do remember that it will contain *spoilers* so please consider it carefully before looking at it.

==>Mituna Captor: Visit the Peixes Residence

You’d think it would get easier coming here each time, but it doesn’t. You’ve never liked seadwellers, especially since that incident with the one Ampora whose name you don’t talk about. Of course, you’ll see him soon enough. Despite Feferi’s better judgment, she probably still keeps him around. They’re moirails, after all, even if Feferi sucks at it.

She’s not the palemate you are, and that’s why you’re here in the first place.

Politics are stupid. You don’t know why, but it means Kurloz has to stay at their hive. You couldn’t care less which one of them takes over. It’d be better if they were flayed instead.

Like, yeah, Feferi pretends to be all nice and sweet to you, but that’s only because she used to date your clone, and she feels bad that she let her moirail do this to you. If she thinks you’re going to get over that, she’s got another thing coming to her. You’ll forgive her and her ass-faced sushi mate when you get better. Which you won’t. It’s forever and so is your hatred.

Wait, what is this place? You groan and lift the flippy part of your helmet to glare though your bangs to the road. It doesn’t look familiar.

Latula was going to escort you, but you were like. You’ve gone there before, Latula. You go practically every perigree. That’s what you told her, but it looks like you were wrong. Why does she stand you? You do nothing but fail.

You don’t cry. Crying is for teat-suckling wigglers. Or wrigglers. You don’t know if there’s an r there. It doesn’t matter. The point is. The point is you’re not a grub.

You are a retarded waste of space, though.

The map. Oh, the map. You remember and pat your pocket. The map’s on the back of one of your mini gaming books. They come in the inside of game packs. Those things. Latula drew a map on here so you wouldn’t forget. She is the best matesprit. You should draw her something later.

The lines you don’t pay attention to. It is the hastily sketched land marks that catch your eye. Latula has them labeled in her beautiful writing. The one-armed tree. The bulge building. The drowning lumpbeast. You snicker at her names of things, and look around for any of them. Then you’ll know where you are and where to go.

Out towards the ocean, you see the island that matches the picture she’s drawn. Latula’s right. It does look like one of those monsters with twin lumps on its back drowning in the water.

You’re standing so that you can see its gaping mouth, though. In the picture, it looks like you’re supposed to be at its ass. You’re retarded but you’re not stupid. You know to circle around the beach til you’re staring at its butthole. “Thanks, Latula,” you say, and tuck the map away.

\---

The Hive is enormous, housing the clone descendants of Her Imperial Condescension, the Empress. Only the first few floors are above water, the rest of it hidden deep within the bowels of the ocean where Meenah and Feferi can easily reach their shared lusus.

There’s more than one door to get inside. You only know one. Kurloz is already there.

Kurloz is mute. He can move his lips and his tongues and no words will ever come out. But he can move his hands to spell out letters and words. He taught you to read it.

“You’re late. I was getting worried,” his fingers say. But he is not angry. Kurloz smiles at you.

You raise your own hand. You’ve learned to imitate his wordless language, because sometimes it’s easier than talking. “I love you,” you sign back, even though you think you used the sign for eye by accident. He’ll understand.

Kurloz’s smile grows. He holds out his arms to you and you hug him.

His broad hand sweeps down your back, over your spine. His nose tickles your ear with his breath when he lifts your helmet to kiss your cheek. You laugh and he shakes silently, unable to make the sounds, but laughing all the same. You flutter your eyelashes against his skin. He shakes harder.

There is more than one way to speak without words.

==>Feferi Peixes: Greet other guests at another door

You are so very EXCITED! This is because, for the very first time, you’re going to have a party at your hive. Okay, so it’s not a party, per se. But you are having some friends over who are not Eridan. Not that you don’t love Eridan! You ADORE Eridan. But sometimes you wish you could see some of your other friends, too. 

Of course, you are also NERVOUS! That is because you are on a tight schedule. You really hope that your guests arrive soon.

Off in the distance, you see them approaching. One is short and somewhat rounded (he really is just like a crab, actually! How ADORABLE!) and the other tall and exceptionally skinny, bent over like his spine can’t really hold him up straight. That one must be Gamzee. You’ve never seen either in real life, but Gamzee does appear to be shaped a lot like Kurloz, who you’ve met plenty of times. Except for the slouching deal; Kurloz always has rigidly proper posture.

The sky here is too cloudy for the sun to hurt any of you, even though it’s already starting to settle anyway. Therefore, there is no danger in running out to meet them, so you do.

“Karcrab!” You wave both arms in the air in case they haven’t noticed you yet. “Gamzee! Over here!”

Karkat tenses visibly by the time you’ve reached them, but that doesn’t stop you from pulling him into a tight embrace. Gamzee is much more open to your hug, although his reaction is a bit delayed, before he squeezes you back. You realize this is because he had to release Karkat’s hand first.

D’aww, they were holding hands!

“I’m so glad the two of you could make it,” you say once you’ve pulled back enough to look at them both, “Come, follow me! I’ll give you guys the tour.”

Eridan is fast asleep in your recoupercoon at this time, who had been too tired to stay up waiting for your guests. You tell Karkat and Gamzee this, making a joke about what a loud snorer he is, before leading them and their luggage down a hall. “I’m guessing the two of you will want to share a block together,” you say slyly. It’s probably their first time sharing a sleeping space.

Karkat’s face grows dark, but not enough to be able to show his mutant color. “Well,” he argues, “it’d just be fucking ungrateful to ask for two whole blocks all to ourselves when we can survive perfectly fine with one. I’m just trying to be damn well courteous, Feferi.”

“Whatever it takes to make you feel betta, Karcrab,” you reply, giving him a wink, “By the wave, I don’t mind if you want to have a feelings jam or get all cuddly with one another.”

His cheeks grow darker still. “Fucking Goddammit, Feferi,” is all he says.

Gamzee, however, laughs loudly. “Man, Fefsis, ain’t he the cutest little motherfucker who ever dared to steal my diamonds? Lookit how his nose all screws like a button when he gets embarrassed like that.” He nudges the smaller troll’s shoulder. “We’d love to get our jam on. It’s been forever since we’ve had one in real life, ain’t it, Karbro? I’ve got so many paps and shooshes stored for the occasion.”

“Shut up!” Karkat’s looking more flustered than pissed, though, which you find to be ridiculously cute.

You burst into giggles. “Oh, I know just how the two of you eel! I can remember when Eridan and I shared a recoupercoon for the first time. I was a little nervous, because I wasn’t sure if he still liked me in the flushed wave – you remember that shipwreck, Karkat – but it turned out all okay!” You lean close and whisper, “Seems he likes someone else now, actually! Won’t tell me who it is, though. Maybe you can figure it out for me, Karcrab? I know he loves talking to you aboat that stuff.”

“Haha, yeah!” Gamzee’s smile was splitting his face now. “I forgot how you two like to get your gossip on together. I just got the adorablest image in my motherfuckin’ mind, you and him all hunched up and chatting your romance shit with the intensity of a thousand suns. Stuff like that just hits me in the chest with how pale I am for—”

Karkat whirled around on his heel, slapping a hand over Gamzee’s mouth. “Don’t you dare finish that fucking sentence. If it hasn’t escaped your easily scattered thinkpan, we’re in public, asshole!”

“Ain’t gonna be for long,” Gamzee replied meaningfully, wagging his eyebrows.

“Oh my God!” Karkat’s face went definitely scarlet there, and he instinctively put his arm over his face to hide it. “Please excuse me and my soon to be dead palemate here, Heiress,” he snarled, yanking at Gamzee’s ear and pulling him into the block.

“Oooh, absolutely,” you reply, “I’m sure you’re just dying to give him an extra hard pap—if you’re into that sort of thing, that is!”

You hear Karkat swearing at you as he closes the door.

You turn to return to Eridan, and then remember something. “Oh, wait!” You knock at their door until Karkat, grumpily, answers it. “Sorry, I don’t want to interrupt your adorable morayeel moment, but just to let you know, in case you want to find me, I’ll be in a meeting with Meenah and Her Imperial Condescension most of the night. I’ll probably be too busy to answer whatever questions you have, so… just ask Eridan! Okay?”

“Oh.” Karkat’s face unscrunches itself. “Yeah, okay. Uh. Good luck.”

What a sweetie! “Why thank you,” you say, “I will certainly fry my best.” You pause, think over that. “Is that a good fish pun, do you think?”

Karkat just stares at you. “If it is, it’s a pretty morbid one.”

“Haha! Maybe.” You decide that you will think over it later and stop distracting them. “Anywave, have a nice day and night! I’m confident you’ll find waves to keep yourselves occupied.”

This didn’t make him sputter like you thought it would, but instead he just sighs heavily. “Yeah. Thanks.”

==>Feferi: Return to the worried moirail that’s waiting up for you

Why would he be waiting up for you? He was asleep the last time you checked!

You open the door, and oddly enough Eridan comes rushing over to you, still naked and covered in slime. “Fef, w-what the hell? W-where hawe you been?”

“Um!” His questioning takes you by surprise. “I told you,” you finally say, shaking your head.

“Told me w-what?” Eridan is genuinely concerned, and you realize that he doesn’t remember.

“Gamzee and Karkat?” This doesn’t spark his memory like you thought it would. “They messaged me a few hours back, remember? Asking if they could stay?”

“Kar an Gam are here?” Eridan’s face goes pale, and his hands go to cover himself.

“Well, downstairs, yeah,” you reply, laughing a little at his reaction, “It’s knot like they’re going to be barging in here or anyfin! Relax.” You kiss his forehead, but he just gives you watery guppy eyes. “I’m searious! They’re occupied enough, little trout aboat that.”

Leaning in closer, you whisper, “It’s their ferry first time sleeping in the same recoupercoon together!”

“But w-why are they here in the first place?” Eridan asks, looking completely lost, “I don’t remember any a this bein’ talked ower.”

“You must’ve been half asleep,” you decide, sighing at his silliness. It’s not unusual for you and Eridan to have entire conversations that he doesn’t remember. Apparently he is an extremely competent sleep-talker… when he isn’t snoring so loud that you swear he has lungs the size of a whale’s. “And they’re here because of REASONS. It’s knot my secret to tell.”

Eridan’s flat, unamused look makes you giggle. “You can’t ewen tell your palemate, Fef?”

“NOPE,” you reply, “Not EWEN my palemate.” His wavy seadweller accent is ridiculous; having gone out of style hundreds of sweeps ago, but it’s good for one thing: it never fails to make you laugh.

“Oh come on,” he whines, but after giving him a glare, he shuts up about it. “W-whatewer. Just… come back an sleep w-with me, alright? I w-was w-worried. You really shouldn’t be goin’ out an about w-with all these attempts on your life lately.”

Now you realize why he’s so freaked out. Sighing, you try to give him your best reassuring smile. “I can take care of myshell, Eridan,” you remind him cheekily, booping his nose to get him to stop making that serious face of his, “Anywave, there’s no time to idle glubbing, or any cuddling, either! The reason I came up here is because I need to change before my meeting with Her Imperial Condescension. You remember that at least, right?”

For a split second, Eridan looks enraged, as if he wants to lash out at you. The barest flash of pitch behind the pale in his eyes. You feel scared for a split second before it just melts away. Now he just looks defeated. “Yeah, yeah, I remember.”

You want to cheer him up. “Want to kelp me get dressed?” That usually does the trick.

It takes a while, but at last he nods, relaxing his adorable scowl. “Yeah, okay.” He turns, moving to your closet. “W-what sort a outfit w-were you thinkin’ a?”

“Hmm! I’m feeling lively today,” you answer, “Lively and hospitable!”

Eridan moves deeper into your closet until he finds your pink clothes. “This shade w-will w-work the best,” he tells you, flipping between the various designs.

You let him work his magic. He’s much better at this than you are, but then again, he has to be. He’s not just your morayeel, he’s your royal advisor! And he takes his job very seriously, bless him. You’re happy that he has someone else to pursue in his flushed quadrant now. Though you’re just DYING to know who on Alternia it could be. Usually you’re excellent at getting information out of anyone you want to, but Eridan has always been… excessively difficult.

At last, Eridan reemerges with a long-sleeved dress with fuchsia and violet stripes that cuts off at her knees, a dipping v-neck, and a matching bow that ties on her hip. Since you are still required to wear your symbol, Eridan grabs a necklace with the Peixes family charm hanging from it. It’s perfect, and you both know it.

“Thank you, Eridan!” You give him a kiss on the cheek and begin to strip.

His face falls. “Don’t you w-want me to help you?” He asks, sounding hurt. Usually you’re fine with letting him being the one who takes your clothes off, but you’re in a little bit of a hurry!

“Sorry, diamond, I’m a little rushed for time. But if you still want to kelp in another way, you could stay up and be ready to greet Equius and Nepeta when they arrive,” you inform him.

“W-wait! Eq an Nep are comin’ ower, too?”

“Yes! We went over this already! Karcrab and Gamzee had a little disagreement with Equius, so they are all going to be staying here for a while until everyfin is all sorted out!”

“Oh my cod. I mean my God. Fuck.”

It’s so adorable when he mimics your fish puns! Especially when it’s on accident! You giggle and kiss him on the cheek again. “Thanks, Eridan.” You wiggle into the dress, waiting as Eridan unties and redoes the bow, pulling the fabric tighter around your waist. “ _Sea_ you later!”

You rush off quickly, both eager and anxious to see Meenah.

After all, you love the girl to death, but it seems like she is always causing some sort of trouble. And you’re the one who always has to clean it up.

==>Meenah Peixes: Cause some trouble

“What is HE doing here?” You jab your finger towards Mituna, who hisses at you so hard that you can see some of his saliva fall to the ground. Eww. “This is not the sort a joint that you can just be bringin’ your cuttle pets into whenever you eel like it, Kurloz!”

Mituna is even all dressed up, not even wearing his helmet, but it doesn’t matter.

Kurloz gives you a glare that makes it very clear that if he could talk, he’d be giving you a huge “Fuck you” or something along those lines.

“I’m his moirail,” Mituna argues, “I can go wherever the fuck I want to with him!” 

You sigh heavily. “That doesn’t mean you have to take advantage of it!” You turn to Kurloz and bark, “I know he’s a troatful, but why don’t you just leave him with one of the servants to take care a him or somefin? This is some searious nefarious schemes we’ll be cookin’ up, figurin’ out how to outfish my lame-o clone!”

“Outfish?” Mituna asks, making a rather ugly snort, “It’s not enough that puns in general are a horoundous laughing excuse for humor, but yours don’t even make sense!!” He puts a hand to his mouth, still snorting. “Oooh, burn!”

“Oh my cod, just clam up your frothin’ vocal tube, or I’ll harpoon you,” you snap at him. He is one of the worst thorns in your side. You could just about strangle Kurloz to death every time he brings his mentally deranged palemate over. It’s not just that he’s completely socially incompetent. He also happens to be really nasty, and racist towards seadwellers.

“The only reason you even like fish is because you can sympathize with their smell!”

Kurloz leans over to give Mituna a pap between his double pair of horns, and the psionic sputters once more before visibly pressing his lips shut.

Good. If the spat between the two of you had been allowed to go on much longer, you’re sure that it might tip into caliginous waters, which would be unacceptable. Then you’d have to go find an auspistice, because like hell are you going to doom your descendants with the genes of a mutant. Besides, you’d just end up shaming your entire Empire.

Well, it isn’t technically yours yet, but you’re working on it. You’re almost certain that the Condesce will choose you as her successor. Because why would she choose Feferi?

Speaking of that particular thorn in your side, here she comes, making an entrance, as always.

Feferi looks stunning in her dress, and you feel inadequate in your vest and dress pants. No doubt Eridan is the one who picked it out for her. Despite being an incompetent dickwad when it comes to dressing himself, he’s weirdly intuitive about picking out outfits that suit your clone best. Speaking of her douchebag other half, he’s not with her. That’s fine; you yourself allowed Aranea to go back to her hive earlier today after realizing how stressed out she was.

“Meenah! Kurloz! Mituna!” Feferi waves to all of you individually, because that’s just the type of troll she is, and then she makes her way over to you.

“I trust that you’ve been keeping everything ship-shape while I was gone!” Feferi says, and you just want to smack her. She has never truly trusted you. What a condescending bitch. At least you’re honest about when you’re being a jerk; Feferi, being the prim little princess she is, always has to make sure that people think the best of her. 

Returning her fake smile right back at her, you answer sarcastically, “Oh, absolutely!” 

Feferi doesn’t seem to quite believe you, but she turns to Kurloz and Mituna, apparently more than happy to ignore you for the time being. “I’m glad to see that you brought your morayeel along, Kurloz. Alwaves a pleasure to see you, Meeeeee-tuna!”

Kurloz grins at the pun Feferi’s made out of his moirail’s name, but Mituna stands firm, not seeming to be amused. You can’t stand how racist he is sometimes.

“Sorry I can’t say the same,” Mituna retorts after a few awkward seconds of silence.

Same old Mituna, really. Feferi should know by now not to provoke him, which basically means speaking to him in any manner.

“Well, why do you say that?” Feferi asks innocently, as if she doesn’t know the answer.

Mituna growls, a very aggressive sound, and Kurloz reaches a hand to his shoulder. Mituna doesn’t stop growling, but he retreats backwards towards his moirail, making him appear more defensive. That doesn’t stop him from running his mouth, though. “I’m not the type of person that tolerates murderers as suitable company,” he hisses, strangely coherent.

This really rubs you the wrong way. “Oh, get over it already, you broken husk of a troll,” you snap, bearing your fangs at him, but Feferi stands in your way. “Out a the way, sweetheart, it’s aboat time someone gave the guppy here a lesson or two on tact.”

“No, no, it’s alright,” Feferi tries to protest.

“It ain’t alright, it’s a thousand seas awave from alright,” you counter, shaking your head. You don’t know how your clone ended up so thick. “You didn’t have anyfin to do with what happened to that basshole, ain’t your fault your morayeel got trigger happy an attacked your baitsprit. An it’s double not your fault that mister sea sponge for brains over here lost his head defendin’ him. It’s the past, nothin’s gonna change anyfin, not whinin’, not beachin’, not nothin’.”

“My cod, Meenah!” God, she’s acting like you just spouted heresy against the Empire or something. Like what you said wasn’t exactly the truth and nothing more.

Over her shoulder, you see Mituna nearly foaming at the mouth as he tries to figure out what he wants to say in retaliation, but Kurloz holds him around his waist and pets his hair with long, spindly fingers. “Fuck,” is what he settles for, “Fuck yoooooou.”

“Not if you were the last blackrom suitor in the whole damn ocean, kiddo,” you reply smoothly, “I’d krill you before I’d let you anywhere near my pail—”

“Enough!” Feferi straightens her shoulders, giving you a fierce look. “I said, that is enough!” She raises her trident to your throat, and glares. “I don’t want to use this, Meenah, but if you keep talking, you’re going to stir up some unnecessary drama, and I—”

“Um, excuse me.”

The block goes silent, and you look over Feferi’s shoulder to see the runt who dared to interrupt your clone. Precocious princess or not, she’s still a fuchsia blood.

He’s a carapace, one of the ones with the pearly white hides and short knobby bodies. Just a pawn, really, eager to please those in a position of authority. This one is nearly shaking in his shirt – the one article of clothes he’s wearing, since apparently carapaces don’t have any discernible gender – as he holds up a hand for everyone’s attention.

“Well, speak up, prawnha, so we can at least hear ya,” you encourage him, “We ain’t gonna bite you or nothin’.”

The carapace nods, somehow shaking even harder as Feferi also turns around to look at him. “Beg your pardon, your majesties,” he says in a slightly louder if also a bit more high-pitched voice, “Please allow me to announce Her Imperial Condescension, the Empress of Alternia and the entire surrounding galaxy.”

“Was wonderin’ when she was gonna be showin’ her gills,” you mutter, shaking your head, “Likes to be fashionably late, which is all whale an good, but kelpin’ us baitin’ all the time—”

Feferi nudges you in the side to get you to shut up, and looks at the large screen.

Normally, around this time, this is when a carapace or other slave turns on the monitor, and after a bit of static, the connection is made and the Condesce herself appears to check in on her two genetic descendants, makes sure that Feferi and you are doing your jobs. And then, of course, she lectures. Sometimes for hours on end.

Today, however, nothing happens. The carapace doesn’t move, just shakes hard. You’re not a master of deciphering alien facial expressions, and he can’t exactly get any paler than he is, but if you didn’t know better, you’d swear that he was looking at a ghost.

“Actually, if I recall correctly, I’d say that Feferi was the fashionably late one tonight.”

Or something much, much worse.

Slowly, Feferi and you turn to the door in the west wing of the block. And of course, there she is, the tallest, strongest, most beautifully insane troll in the galaxy.

Her Imperial Condescension, the Empress.

“Whale, whale, whale, looks like a crustation up and scuttled off with your tongues, gurls,” the Empress drawls, smacking her tongue off the top of her mouth as she speaks in the most annoying way possible. But she does it because she can, because no one is going to tell her to stop. The Condesce is seriously fucked up, but she knows how to be a ruler, and you can dig that. Except when she tries to copy the latest slang. Then she’s just plain embarrassing.

In the corner of your eye, you see Kurloz nudge Mituna backwards with his arm, and then he gets down on his knee. Mituna bites his lip, hard enough so that you can see some blood trickle, and reluctantly follows his moirail’s action.

“Ahh, if it isn’t the Grand Highblood’s prodigy child,” the Condesce addresses Kurloz with enough sticky fondness in her tone to make you feel a bit ill. She’s always hated the church, those clowns with their crazy cult, following orders they receive from so-called “visions” they have when they’re high as the stars in the sky. “Where’s your clone, the matching set to – water you guys culling it again – the new Merciful Messiahs? Gamsea was his name, right? Or he is still off his rocker, drownin’ in sopor like it was the last oasis in the desert? Guzzling it down like it was tapped directly from the fountain of youth?” 

The Empress laughs, a sound of pure cruelty. She knew she could say whatever she wanted to, and Kurloz is helpless to defend himself against her verbal assault, not even to redeem his supposedly celestial bloodline.

“Oh, and you brought your mutated diamond whore along for the ride,” the Condesce goes on, apparently on a roll, “Ya know, it’s too bad the little minnow bit the proverbial bullet when it came to his psionic tricks, came back from the dead and left half a himshell behind – the Helmsman’s batteries are starting to run dry, and I could use a replacement. At least then miny Tuna here would have a future. Well, there’s still the other pissblood, but I hear he’s even worse off nowadays. The way I hear it, he’d be betta off as a corpse… happier, too.”

“Ngg.” Mituna grunts and makes a sound like he’s desperate to summon his psionics. But of course, they fail to come to his aid.

Kurloz’s hand at Mituna’s chest tightens around his shirt. You think it’s half a way to comfort the other, and half fearing that his moirail will go doing something stupid and getting himself killed. Much as you despise the guy, you wouldn’t wish death on him, or grief on Kurloz’s end, either.

Beside you, you can feel the anger radiating from Feferi’s skin like she is just barely able to restrain herself from launching herself at the Condesce’s throat and tearing her jugular out with her bare claws. Honestly, you don’t blame her. If the Empress ever spoke about Aranea in the same manner, even if the two of you had somehow broken apart or been separated, you’d drive your trident so far down the Condesce’s throat that it’d come out her ass, genetic ancestor or not.

You know that saying about being able to cut the tension with a knife? Well, no ordinary knife could do the trick with this atmosphere.

Of course, her Imperial Condescension knows all about the chaos she’s stirred up, you can see it in the twist of her lip, the eyebrow that’s raised just a fraction of an inch above the other. The sigh that comes from her mouth sounds forced, obviously an act. She twists her own trident in her hands, fiddling with it, as she begins to move in an arching line, like the beginning of a circle.

“That’s all assuming I’m keeping the throne long enough to sick the drones on undeserving genetic fuck-ups like you. Which is starting to look like more of a possibility than ever before…”

She’s trailing off on purpose, and her words sink in like ice water. 

“The glub are you insinuatin’, your majesty?” You try to keep your voice curious rather than pissed off. And you’re definitely making sure to not let even a hint of fear creep into your voice. Is that why she’s starting to round on the lot of you like a shark? Is she planning on… murdering you all?

But, no. That’s impossible. Gl’bgolyb would take her revenge if the Empress dared to lay a single badly manicured claw on either one of you.

“I’m not insinuating anyfin,” the Condesce replies in a nonchalant manner, “I am simply stating that this is the ferry last sweep either of you gurls have as wrigglers. Next sweep, ya’ll be adults. That is, a course, if you bass your examinations.”

Again, she pauses to let her words have their intended effect.

“That’s why I decided to make a public appearance. I can’t cull you gurls where you stand, but no one’s gonna do nofin if the drones have to execute you. Which they will, if and when you show up at the end of the sweep with only a couple measly quadrants filled between the both a ya.” The Condesce stops her circling and clasps her hands together. “Feffy, darlin’, you have yourshell a lovely seadweller moirail, which would be nice if he wasn’t also known as a psychotic nutbag. And Mee-Mee, gurl that blueblood matesprit of yours is only gonna get you so far if you can only fill one bucket. Ladies, please, listen to me. The Empire needs a strong leader. A shining example of all that is just with our system. And having an Empress that doesn’t even have at least her concupiscent quadrants filled around filial pail season just isn’t gonna impress nobody.”

Before either of you can respond – not that you have enough sense left in you at this point to even begin to think of a response – she holds out her hand.

“Let me simplify it for my two little pearls. Anyone who doesn’t have all four quadrants squared out by the end of the sweep is automatically disqualified from the throne,” she says, sharp and curt, the smile having left her face by now, “And if the only one left standing all on her lonesome is me— Well, let’s just say that the beach is back, and here to stay.”

==>Karkat: Wake up

For that to be possible, you’d actually have to be sleeping. Unfortunately, that is not the case. Gamzee fell asleep two hours ago, but your body hasn’t even had the decency to do something as simple as yawn yet. Speaking of that fail of a ‘rail clown, he’s still holding you as if you’re his last lifeline.

He’s actually not that bad of a troll to share a recoupercoon with, though. You glance over at him, his head lolled over the side, messy tangles of hair covering his face, which is completely free of any weird religious paint. He actually let you take it off for him, let you use your own hands to clean it from his skin, and your heart skips a beat at the reminder. 

You pause a second before brushing some of the curls from his cheek so that you can see the line of his jaw again. Not too long ago, his skin was unbearably cold to the touch. Now, though, it’s warmed – by his proximity to you. When the pad of a finger brushes his skin, he lets out a contented sigh.

It’s really not fair to anyone – lest of all, Gamzee – how much you actually love him. He knows about your mutation, of course. You’ve told him long ago. He never cared. He didn’t even understand what the problem was until you explained it to him. You only wish that you could have fought your own feelings for him, let someone better qualified claim his pale quadrant. When the drones come for you – and they will, someday, it’s only a matter of time – Gamzee will have nobody to fight for him.

Gamzee will want to fight for you, though. In your broken blood pusher, you know you cannot let that happen. But, in your think pan, you know that you cannot stop him, either.

You can’t afford to stop him.

No matter how happy he makes you, how good it feels to be touched by hands that you know will never harm you, how nice to look into the eyes of the one you adore and see nothing but that same level of devotion mirrored back to you, there is always that lingering dread in the back of your mind, telling you that this isn’t right, that you’re putting him in danger, that you’re not worthy of his affection.

Maybe that’s why you can’t sleep. Or maybe it’s because you’re a bit of an insomniac.

Wiggling out of his iron grip takes more than a little bit of effort, and a lot of tact. Even unconscious, Gamzee seems to be loath to let you out of his arms for one moment. He hasn’t let you do that once since Feferi left the two of you alone in this borrowed block.

The air is really chilly on your naked skin, and you shiver and almost sink back into the sopor. Then your stomach grumbles again, and you remember why you’re moving in the first place.

You haven’t exactly had a decent meal for a long time, too busy being melodramatic about your wriggling day or getting caught up with the fact that you are actually spending time with your moirail in real life rather than on your grubtop to remember to feed yourself properly.

Since you still have sopor covering your body, you get into the ablution block for a quick rinse before drying and putting on some clothes.

Gamzee’s still sleeping soundly when you sneak out the door.

==>Karkat: Bump into an old friend

When you manage to finally find your way to the nutrition block, you find that you’re not alone. The light is already on, and a familiar face is scavenging through the fridge. Well, you can’t see the face. But you recognize the scarf.

“Can’t sleep either?”

He nearly drives his horns through the top of the fridge in his surprise. Eridan pulls his head out and gapes at you. “ _Kar_?”

“No, I’m an apparition,” you snark back dryly, “Who else would it be, fuckass?” You would have thought that Feferi would have told him you were coming. “Gamzee and I are going to be staying here for a while,” you inform him.

“I know-w,” he says.

Eridan has gotten a lot taller since the last time you saw him. Or maybe he hasn’t grown that much at all, but he seems taller because his shoulders have become broader. Actually, your old seadweller friend is looking too much like that Dualscar guy he used to be obsessed with when he was a kid for you to feel entirely comfortable being alone in the nutrition block with him.

“You’we lost some w-weight,” he tells you. Apparently he was checking you out as well. 

He’s still an ass, you see. Shooting him a glare, you growl, “Very classy. Yes, we haven’t spoken in perigees and haven’t seen each other face to face even longer, sweeps probably, but of course our first verbal exchange should be of petty sarcastic comments about my body mass. How wonderfully Eridan of you. I had to use your fucking name because even my extensive vocabulary fails to come up with a suitable term to describe the sheer level of douche happening in this block.”

Eridan scowls at you from behind his boxy glasses. “I w-was bein’ sincere,” he informs you haughtily, “You’re the one makin’ a cluckfight out a nothin’.” He pauses and loses some of his steam. “You look good,” he adds, “an no, that w-was not a subtle jab about how-w you used to be chubby. Besides, it w-was cute. You’re still cute.”

“And now that we’re done with the backhanded compliments, let’s skip right to the part where you make a move on me,” you continue, not quite being able to believe your own ears. It seems like he can’t go five minutes without hitting on anyone. Typical.

“Stop jumpin’ the gun,” Eridan replies sourly, “an goin’ around assumin’ things. First a all, w-when is it a crime to appreciate another troll’s fine qualities? Second a all, I found it quite endearin’, w-what w-with your nut creature cheeks an your circular face. I don’t know-w, you w-were just so… w-what’s the w-word I’m lookin’ for? Oh, squeezable. You w-were squeezable.”

“Squeezable?” Fucking Eridan. You roll your eyes, nudging him out of the way so that you can look for some food to eat yourself. “We both know I was overweight when I was younger, there’s need to fucking beat around the bush—”

“Kar, you w-were newer overw-weight,” Eridan protests, laughing a bit, “Just a little horizontally gifted. Probably to make up for sort a losin’ in the vertical department.”

“Wow, thanks, now I feel less like shit than ever before. Eridan, how do you do it?”

Fuck, it must be amazing to be a Heiress. The fridge is completely stocked to the brim with food, though most of it is uncooked fish. The other stuff you’re mostly not even familiar with. Probably some expensive fancy delicacies that only the absurdly wealthy can afford. Caviar or liver or something in the same vein. Unfortunately, since you recognize very little of it, you’re not quite sure what you can make that will appease your rumbling stomach.

“I w-was goin’ to make some tuna sandwiches if you w-wanted any,” Eridan suggests, apparently sensing your dilemma.

You’ve never had tuna fish before. You nod eagerly, a bit surprised that your caste-supportive friend is okay with you eating food that’s usually only reserved for those that are capable of catching it – aka, those that live in the sea. 

“W-want some grubsauce to go w-with?” Eridan asks, turning to prepare the sandwiches.

“Does grubsauce… taste good with tuna fish?” You’re at a total loss here. How are you supposed to know what you like with your tuna fish, or even if you like tuna fish at all?

“Yeah, the tuna’s a bit dry w-without it.”

“Then sure.” Dry meat of any kind doesn’t sound all that appealing, so you assume the same works for fish.

Since you don’t really have anything else to do, you sit yourself down at the counter and wait for your friend to finish making you food. “I’m surprised you’re even capable of feeding yourself,” you snark at him, “Don’t you have slaves to take care of that for you? I thought it was their job to do everything for you, even wipe your ass.”

Eridan snorts, looking over his shoulder for a split second to show you his entirely amused expression. “Kar, I plan on bein’ fightin’ as Fef’s most important member a the royal guard w-when I’m older,” he informs you, “I kind a hawe to learn to feed an apply ablutions to myself.”

“Wow that must suck,” you retort, “learning how to feed and apply your own fucking ablutions. I’m so proud of you, man.”

“You’re bein’ more a an ass than usual. Any particular reason w-why?”

Whoa, shit. You pause. Were you being more of an ass than usual? You think back and sigh loudly. And you were accusing him of being rude to you, too. That makes you worse than an ass: you are officially a hypocrite.

“W-what’s up?”

Lucky for you, Eridan doesn’t sound offended. And when Eridan gets offended, he gets as bad as Kankri. Then again, maybe he has matured since you last talked with him.

You can’t tell him about your mutation. But you won’t lie to him, either. You owe him that much. Instead, you go with, “I got into a fight with Equius, I have my reasons to believe that I won’t survive the next sweep, and on top of all that, I had to break up with Terezi.”

“You an Rez broke off?” Eridan stops whatever he’s doing – spreading some seriously unappealing smelly stuff on bread – to look at you. “Seriously? That’s harsh.”

“No, it was me being an oversensitive nookwipe again and refusing to learn my lesson the first one and a fucking half million times.” You are quick to defend Terezi, since it wasn’t her fault. “I mean, we went on and off for what seemed like forever. But I guess she got fed up with my bullshit, because this time when I told her to fuck off and not come crawling back, she obeyed.”

Eridan slumps against the counter he’s leaning against, sighs and rubs his hand across his forehead. “I’m sorry to hear about that, Kar,” he says, shaking his head, “I thought you tw-wo w-were, you know-w—”

“The real deal?” Finishing his sentence isn’t hard. Besides yourself, Eridan is the only troll you know that still truly believes in troll serendipity anymore: the belief that there is one – and only one – true pairing for you in each of the four quadrants. You’d have sworn that Terezi belonged in at least one of those. If not flushed, then one of the others. Black would have been your second pick, but Terezi was dead set against the idea. Not pale because Gamzee was your true other half. Ashen didn’t seem any more likely. And so Terezi had to be your fated heart, right? Eridan was the only one who you ever admitted that to, though. “Yeah, well, we weren’t.”

“That’s terrible,” Eridan mutters, turning back to finish up your late day meals.

You couldn’t agree more.

The two of you sit in silence as Eridan works. He puts the two sandwiches on plates and sets one down in front of you, and then takes his own seat opposite yours. Eridan bites into his sandwich with an obvious loss of appetite. Yours, however, has only grown since remembering how things ended with Terezi. The sandwich still smells nasty, but when you take your first tentative bite, it’s actually not that bad. Of course, that could just be your hunger talking. 

“You an Gam are still w-workin’ out though, right?” Eridan asks after a long block of silence has passed by, “I mean, Fef told me you w-were sharin’ a recoupercoon for the first time.”

What a loudmouth. “Does Feferi keep anything to herself?”

“Not from her palemate,” Eridan replies, “W-well. Okay, a few-w things, but not stuff like that. So, c’mon, tell me all about it.”

As much as you love to gossip with Eridan, you’re still reluctant to tell him the sorts of stuff that goes on in private between you and your moirail. Traditionally, what happened in a moirallegiance was never publically spoken about. Of course, those times are long gone, and only exist in your movies. But it’s hard anyway. Additionally, you’re not even sure what to say. “It was perfect”? Well, of course it was, except for every moment that your traitorous think pain reminded you that it was your fault the two of you were hiding in the first place.

Eridan takes your lack of an answer as bad news. “That bad, huh?” He lifts the side of his lip in a comforting manner. “Does he snore really loud or somethin’? Don’t w-worry, it gets better.”

“What? Oh, no.” Eridan is still giving you a sympathetic look, so you continue. “Gamzee and I are… fuck. We’re great. Getting to see him in real life – I mean, this isn’t the first time, but it’s the first time we’ve stayed over during the day together – it’s amazing. It never stops being amazing. It’s like, our eyes meet and I can’t even remember how the ever-loving shit I survived the time we spent apart. Metaphorically and literally. Like, I literally do not remember one minute of my life alone in my own hive right now.” Wow, talk about way too much fucking information, Vantas. Congratulations. You have now officially spilled all your guts out about the guy you’re in love with like the most pathetic cliché Mary Sue romantic interest to ever exist in any universe’s cinema.

You’d think Eridan would understand what you mean, himself having had a moirail for what seems like forever, but he only looks taken aback. “W-wait, really? You’re really feelin’ all that touchy-feely crap you soak up from your movies an books? The soulful connections an the glitter eyes—”

“Moon eyes,” you’re quick to correct him, “and yes. That’s what soulmates are for, right?”

“A course,” Eridan is just as quick to defend himself, “but on your first time sharin’ the ‘coon together? It takes aw-while to get used to another troll’s sleepin’ habits, after sleepin’ on your lonesome for fucking ewer. Doesn’t Gamzee hawe any w-weird sleepin’ habits?”

For some reason, you’re getting the impression that your answer to his question is going to mean a lot more to him than he’s letting on. And so you answer honestly, “Well, he clings to me.”

“Right?” Eridan looks thrilled. “Ain’t that annoyin’?”

It kind of pisses you off that Eridan is so delighted by the prospect of your pale relationship going sour. “Actually, not really. It’s…” Your pride and your desire to prove Eridan wrong fight for dominance. At last, you relent. “It’s fucking adorable as all hell.”

“Ah.” A lightbulb has seemed to have clicked for your fishy friend. “It’s the honeymoon phase.”

“I’m not so sure about that,” you counter, dropping your sandwich and fixing Eridan with a glare, “And why does it matter so much to you, anyway? Why so eager to see my moirallegiance crash and burn as bad as my matespritship?”

That at least appears to knock Eridan back into his senses. “Oh. Oh, no Kar. I don’t w-want to see you an Gam break up. As Nep w-would say, I ship you guys. Honest.”

You allow another wave of silence to drag out. Returning to your sandwich, you ignore him.

“Speakin’ a Nep,” Eridan speaks up, seeming just as happy as you are to change the subject, “That’s w-why I’m up in the middle a the day. I’m w-waitin’ to greet Eq an Nep. I suppose you w-won’t tell me w-what sort a fight you an Eq had?”

“Just more caste system bullshit,” you expertly dodge having to tell the truth with the truth. Well, it’s true enough.

Eridan nods. See, while he believes in the hemospectrum like Equius, Eridan has never tried to force his beliefs down your gullet. He understands why you hate the hemospectrum and respects your right to keep yourself hemoanonymous. And that’s why Eridan is a close friend of yours, and Equius is not.

“W-well, hopefully it’ll get solved before w-we hawe to call in an auspistice,” Eridan comments.

“Whoa, whoa, no.” Is he actually suggesting… _that_? “I am not black for Equius,” you inform Eridan, “or ashen, or what the fuck ever. He will never bulldoze his sweaty brick ass into any of my quadrants, so help me God, or I’ll probably vomit myself to death.”

Eridan laughs. “Not your type?”

“I’m not even sure I have a ‘type’,” you inform your gossip buddy, “but if I did, it would be Equius’s complete opposite. For every quadrant. That guy has me breaking out in hives whenever his name gets mentioned.” You don’t think Eridan hears you though, on account of him still laughing.

After a second, you snicker as well. Eridan’s laughter is sort of contagious that way. It reminds you of all the other times the two of you had spent hours on end disclosing romantic information to one another.

Which brings you back to Feferi’s words. “Hey,” you say, “Feferi said you had a new flushcrush, but she can’t figure out who. She actually asked me to ask you for her, believe it or not. Probably wanted me to be all round-about and cagey about it. Too late for that, I guess.”

“No kiddin’,” Eridan scoffs, “Besides, I’d weasel up your true intentions in no time.”

“So?”

“So w-what?” You know Eridan well enough to realize that he is being oblivious on purpose. He doesn’t want you to know about his new crush any more than he wants Feferi to know.

Which, of course, narrows it down. “It’s someone I know, isn’t it?”

“W-who is?”

He can play that game all he wants. You’re too good at this game to lose. “At least tell me if it’s a guy or a girl, that’ll take half of them out of consideration.”

“I don’t know-w w-who—”

“Eridan. Guy or girl?”

He stares at you for a long time. You stare right on back. Some trolls have a preference for one gender or the other, which you’ve always found kind of ridiculous, but you know Eridan tends to lean more towards the female side of the spectrum, which is why you’re a bit surprised when he says:

“Guy.”

You can safely take twelve girls out of the picture. Also, you can eliminate Eridan himelf, his clone, and Sollux right off the bat. That leaves a total of nine possible candidates. Perfect.

“Do you have a shot with him?”

“The fuck is that supposed to mean, Kar?”

“It means, does he have his flushed quadrant open?” You explain gently, “Come on, either way that still leaves a bunch of trolls to choose from.” Okay, so that was a lie, but it’s all for the greater good. You’re not doing this for Feferi, by the way. You’re doing this because this is the very first time Eridan has refused to tell you about one of his crushes. Which, by the rules of reverse therapy, means that you want to know really, really badly.

“…His quadrant is open, doesn’t mean I hawe a shot,” Eridan replies bitterly.

You beam in satisfaction. “Alright, then, who does that leave?” For your own amusement, you think through it out loud so that Eridan can hear you. “Let’s start at the top of the hemospectrum, because I can’t see you dating a ‘low-wblood’.” By now, you can mock his accent perfectly. “Can’t be Kurloz, he’s taken. What about Gamzee?” 

You glance up at him, but while he looks nervous, you see a bit of disgust underneath, too.

“Not Gamzee. Hmm… Horrus in’t an option. I’d kill you if it was Equius, so let’s assume that it isn’t him.” Not a highblood, then. “Moving down… well all the midbloods are female, tsk tsk, so it _is_ a lowblood you’re pining for.” You almost feel bad for the guy. “A prince falling for a peasant? Well whoopy-fucking-do, I’ve never heard that one before. It ain’t Sollux, can’t be Mituna. Rufioh, now I would believe that, except, wait, he’s with Horrus, so no, can’t be him. If it’s Tavros you’re sore out of luck, Gamzee tried that and failed miserably, apparently he’s in love with Vriska of all people.”

You try not to linger over that part. Tavros hurt you almost as much as he hurt Gamzee. You had actually been hoping for them to get together. The way Gamzee talked about him… It sounds stupid, but for a while it seemed like something out of one of your romcoms.

Back to Eridan’s flushcrush. You’re running out of options fast. You go back through them in your head to count them. Two Makara’s, two Zahhak’s, Mituna, that’s five, then the Nitram’s, that makes seven…

Who are you missing?

And then the horror seizes over you, and floundering for air, you’re incapable of anything but sputtering at Eridan, “ _Kankri_? You’re flushed for _him_?”

To both your surprise and relief, Eridan looks as taken aback as you are. “W-what? Holy fuck, Kar, no, I ain’t red for Kri. I don’t w-want him in any quadrant, no offense to your genetic clone, but dammit Kar I ain’t got nothin’ but platonic indifference to that fellow-w.”

“No?” Then _who_ does he like? “Equius?”

“He ain’t my type neither,” Eridan says, putting up his hands in defense, apparently still frazzled from your outburst. “C’mon, Kar, just stop diggin’. I’m not stupid enough to beliewe that it’ll take you much longer to realize w-who it is, so I’m askin’ politely—”

There are only two options left. You lean closer, and Eridan blushes bright violet. “It’s not Tavros, is it?”

“Kar…”

It isn’t Tavros. You can see it in his face. 

Honestly, this is an all-time new low for your friend. How dare he? You’re too enraged to even eat him out over it. No, screaming profanities at him would do nothing to lessen the sudden knot in your digestive tract. So instead you go with, “Is that your idea of a sick joke?”

“W-w-what?”

He actually stuttered. God fucking seadweller accent. God fucking shitty excuse for a friend. “I’ll have to hand it to you, real fucking clever,” you continue, “getting Feferi to set me up to ask the question. I’ve never seen you go through such complicated measures to hit on a guy, Eridan. Then again, you’ve pretty good with complex procedures, like how to destroy all land-dwelling life, so I suppose you hardly even had to stretch that super fucking brain of yours.”

“Kar,” Eridan returns, “W-whatewer the fuck you think is goin’ on, ain’t. I’m not tryin’ to hit on you. Hell, I thought you an Rez w-were still—”

“Together.” Yeah, you just remembered that yourself. But that’s even worse. That means that Eridan is sincere. That means that right now, as the two of you are sitting in the Peixes’s nutrition block sharing gossip over the table, Eridan’s heart is hoping, wishing…

And for what? You, who has nothing to offer anyone in either concupiscent quadrant.

“An okay,” Eridan’s voice drifts through your thoughts, brings you back to the matter at hand. Eridan fucking Ampora is flushed for no one other than you, and he _means_ it. At least, he thinks that he means it. “I’m goin’ to risk soundin’ like an instigator here, tryin’ to corner you into a square you probably don’t w-want, but the end of the sw-weep is comin’ up, an if neither a us hawe someone to speak for our hearts by then, w-well it’d only make sense…”

He can’t actually be suggesting…

The seadweller’s sigh comes from deep within his chest. “W-well, w-would you giwe me a chance then?” 

“No.” Harsh, it sounds so harsh that even you end up wincing. But it had to be said. Eridan doesn’t want your mutated genetic material. 

Eridan looks like he isn’t sure if he’s heard you. “No?”

“We wouldn’t work out,” you inform him simply, “We’re too fucking different, on opposing ends on everything.”

“So… you can’t see yourself ewer bein’… flushed for me?”

“No.” That’s the second lie you’ve told today. To be completely honest, you considered it once, back when the two of you were younger, and Eridan hit on you for the first time. After all, he’s a fucking prince, he shares the same ideas about romance, and the two of you get along. But the idea is completely improbable. It’s not a romance that would have any chance of lasting. That doesn’t mean that you came to the conclusion easily, however. “I’m sorry, Eridan.”

You can’t even look at him to gauge his expression. It’s hard to imagine where to go from here, now that you just broke your friend’s heart. Then again, he usually bounces back quickly.

“I better go check if Eq an Nep are here yet,” he says, and you hear him get up and leave.


End file.
